


eu lembro

by bleakmidwinter



Series: Memories of Cape Verde [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst, Cape Verde, Closure, Conversations, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fight Sex, First Time, Frottage, Hiking, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Manipulation, Memory Loss, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Pining, Post Fall, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Sex In A Cave, Swimming, Touch-Starved, Violence, Yearning, but cannibals are complicated, they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: Together and on the run, Will and Hannibal must face the fallout following Hannibal's recent Memory Loss.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Memories of Cape Verde [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012899
Comments: 96
Kudos: 299





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> eu lembro  
> english translation from portuguese;  
> i remember

_“I remember.”_

Will grips the edge of the table with pale knuckles. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he whispers.

Hannibal smiles wider, teeth flashing. Quaintly, he sets his knife and fork down and straightens his posture. Will hasn’t taken his eyes off of him. 

“I remember everything, Will.” 

“Tell me something,” Will’s voice is quiet as snowfall. “Anything. Prove it to me.” 

Hannibal’s head slants to the left, eyes wandering across the dining table as if taking in their meal for the first time. The smile remains, but weakens.

“You lied to me, Will. You know how I feel about dishonesty.” 

Will gawks, bewildered. He taps two fingers against the top of the table before inching them toward his drink. Hannibal’s glare is not to be trifled with, so he doesn’t end up taking it in hand.

“What?” he asks. 

“When I asked you if it was good to see me. You told me ‘no.’” 

They level each other with a brute stare. Hannibal doesn’t break until Will does. When Will breaks, a short and mangled noise falls from his lips and he slumps in pure full-bodied relief. Only then does Hannibal allow a warm smile to appear on his face, to welcome this reaction. 

“Hannibal, I’ve been so lost,” Will murmurs, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. They squeeze the edge of the table, and tug at one corner of the crimson placemat under his dish. Hannibal reaches forward and clasps their hands together. 

Will stops fidgeting and sinks into the touch, eyes closing. 

“No more lost than I would be in your position,” Hannibal promises. If he were to have Will, wiped of his memory, wake up before him as such, he may have resisted the outcome in a fatal manner. It would have ended in bloodshed, and not the kind Will had attempted to give him mere hours ago 

“I didn’t lie,” Will says and Hannibal hums in question.

Will’s fingers are barbed coils; he won’t let his hand go.

“You asked me if it was good to see you. It wasn’t good. It was more than that, something other than good or bad. You should have known better.”

Hannibal’s brows twitch up, amused. 

“Three years without a word from you may have muddled my judgement.” 

“Pity,” Will remarks, but for all his gusto, he is trembling. 

Hannibal could reach out and massage the tension from his neck and shoulders, and reverently whisper affirmations in his ears. All in good time; there are deeds to be handled. 

“While I would love more than anything to continue having dinner with you, I’m afraid I’ve been absent for far too long. I need to call Chiyoh to sort out some of the finer details of our stay here,” Hannibal tells him, removing his hand with minimal struggle from Will’s, and folds his napkin daintily in place beside his scarcely touched dish. 

“Wait–” Will’s tone is close to a panic. “I–I’ve been taking care of your assets. Do you have to call her now?”

“I do.” Hannibal stands, tugs at the sides of his suit, repositions his tie. “Do not fret, Will. It won’t take me long.” 

“I’ll go sit with you,” Will asserts, wobbling to a stand too quickly. Hannibal reaches out to grip his shoulder. He pushes until Will sits back down.

“You will finish your dinner,” he tells him lightly. Moving to kneel beside him, he keeps his hand on his shoulder as he speaks. “In time Will, we can discuss everything. You must trust me to handle our situation tonight. In the morning, we can start fresh. You need this time to process. To calm yourself down.”

Hannibal can see in Will’s eyes he wants to protest at the top of his lungs. He has had significant time to process, and now he’s being told to wait even longer. But, he trusts Hannibal more than he would ever verbally admit to, so he nods and turns begrudgingly back toward his food. 

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal murmurs and squeezes his shoulder once before easily traversing the grounds of the house to find the house phone. There is one in his bedroom, and one in the dining room, but he’d rather be away from Will when he makes this call. 

Will needs to focus on his dinner and marinate in his own thoughts, and if Hannibal is beside him, he can’t imagine he’ll be focusing on anything other than him. 

The phone rings twice, and then Chiyoh picks up.

“Graham?” Chiyoh asks blankly. 

“Hannibal,” he states proudly. “In tip-top condition, I might add.”

There is a beat of silence, of wondrous relief. 

“I’m glad to hear that you have recovered,” Chiyoh states, in the same placid tone as before, but Hannibal knows if she were by his side he would be able to see the frown lines vanish for one glorious moment. “How is Will faring?”

“Poorly, I imagine. We’ll manage. No need to worry about that, Will is my quandary to handle, not yours. I take it you gave him only the necessary assets. My financial accounts and deeds, but not the–”

“No, I wouldn’t. That is yours to give.” 

Hannibal sighs. The tension he’d felt since regaining his memories is diminishing in full. He swallows and sits down on the edge of the bed, keeping the phone close to his ear. 

“Have you been checking the statements? Will has never managed this much money before, I’d like to make sure that everything is in order.”

“He’s surprisingly adept. Despite what I’d consider an unstable personality.” 

With a fond smile, Hannibal nods to no one in particular. 

“Unsurprisingly,” he corrects quietly. “Will you forward any intelligence you’ve been gathering in my absence to my secondary email? I have some catching up to do.” 

“Will hasn’t been showing you the news stories?” she asks. 

“No, I’m afraid not. I find I cannot blame him for that,” Hannibal replies. He stands to close his bedroom door and then approaches his dresser. “I’d like to look over the information you’ve gathered tonight, if possible.”

“Of course.” 

“Are you well, Chiyoh?” 

There is a cold husk of a laugh, and then a sigh.

“The webs we weave are the webs you weave for us. I’m fairly certain I am as good as you find yourself to be,” she replies thoughtfully.

“As it should be.”

“Send Will my regards,” Chiyoh requests. 

“That I will.” 

There is a beeping sound, and the line drops. Hannibal places the phone back on the receiver and removes his shoes. He changes into a two piece black button up pajama and stretches out on his bed with pillows propped between his back and the headboard. 

Hannibal takes out his laptop, and powers it on. 

He suspects the night will be long as he sorts through his assets and whatever news articles and criminal rumblings Chiyoh has gathered in his stead. Will couldn’t have known what to keep an eye out for, and Hannibal has no problem being presented with a challenge. Hopefully, they will not need to move to a new safe house come the morning. 

This house in Cape Verde hadn’t been Hannibal’s choice for first stop. 

Seeing as Will’s choice of victim and location for their recent homicidal excursion had been intelligently chosen and carried out, the future does not appear dimmed, but rather hopeful. They may be able to stay here for a few years yet. 

Hannibal is thirty minutes into his internet exploration, ample time to absorb any missing pieces, when two soft knocks sound from the door. 

“Come in,” he calls, and the door is instantly opened. Will pokes his head through, then enters completely. He’s in his pajamas too, a red plaid get-up. 

“I washed the dishes and put them away, and put the leftovers in the fridge,” he tells him, and Hannibal smiles. 

“You didn’t need to do that.” 

“Someone had to clean up. You holed yourself away.” 

Hannibal gentles and scoots over on the bed. He pats the empty space beside him. Will’s eyes go bug-wide and one of his hands finds the doorknob. Either to steady himself or with the intention to leave.

“Would you care to sift through Tattlecrime with me?” Hannibal clarifies.

Will frowns. “You’re looking at Tattlecrime?” he asks testily, though he’s inching closer now. The offer is beckoning him. 

“Is that alright with you?” he teases, and Will averts his gaze.

“I can’t stop you.” 

“I’m well aware you haven’t even bothered to glance at the news, or any headlines. I remember everything from my time without memories to guide me. There’s no need for pretense.” 

When he tells Will he remembers everything from when he was afflicted, Will seems to shrink where he stands at the edge of the bed. Hannibal tilts his head, wonders what could be bothering him so dearly. 

“Tell me, Will. Why have you avoided this until now?” 

“I thought we’d be getting to questions in the morning,” Will grumbles, running fingers through his hair. The gel isn’t holding it together as well as it had during dinner. It’s begging for a fine-tooth comb and a firm hand. 

“And yet you came to my room,” Hannibal prods. “Just to let me know you put the dishes back in their rightful place?” 

Will tucks his chin, looks up at him with a familiar glint in his eyes. He finally moves to sit down, body half turned to keep his gaze level with Hannibal’s.

“All the teacups were put away unscathed.” 

There hadn’t been any teacups on the dining table. Will is a clever boy, as he’s always been. 

“Come, sit closer,” Hannibal urges him brightly, returning to the article he’d been reading. It is the most recent one written by Freddie Lounds herself. An anonymous tip line has been opened indefinitely on her website, and it seems she is working with Jack Crawford though he’s been decommissioned from the FBI. Quite humorous. 

Will scoots closer until their shoulders are touching.

“They still believe we’re dead,” Will mumbles and Hannibal nods. 

“If we had been designated living felons on the lamb, I’m afraid we’d have to leave this estate posthaste.” 

Will haltingly turns to face Hannibal. 

“Chiyoh was the one who suggested this house. She wasn’t sure what your game plan had been. I wasn’t sure either,” he explains. 

Hannibal doesn’t face him, keeping his eyes on the article.

“It could have been worse. You could have sailed to my mansion in Rio.”

“You have a mansion in Rio?” Will exclaims. He obviously hasn't examined the deeds at length.

Hannibal sets the laptop down and meets his eyes. “Yes I do,” he says blithely. “It is my most extravagant one. Out in the open and brilliantly luxurious for any simpleton’s passing gaze.” 

“Alana would find us in a minute, and Rio's riddled with tourists.” 

“That she would. I had hoped to bring you to Argentina first, perhaps Cuba, but I am pleased by the outcome. Perhaps fate made our decision for us by instilling me with amnesia.”

“The universe didn’t give you amnesia just because it wanted you in Cape Verde.” 

“I’ve accumulated so many beautiful drawings of you by the Cape’s sea, ones I would have not been able to capture in South America. That to me, is fate.” 

Will swallows and turns back to the laptop. He inches closer.

Hannibal suppresses the blistering smile threatening to take him over and exits the page to scroll down to the article posted just a day after the Dragon had been slain. The headline recounts their fall into the turbulent waters beneath the cliff house, and various graphic details on how he and Will carved and killed Francis Dolarhyde. 

They read it together in silence, and Hannibal doesn’t notice until halfway through Will’s cheek resting upon his shoulder. 

He doesn’t jostle him, but he moves just enough to look down and witness the swath of curls currently tickling his collarbone. Will’s body is slumped against him, the picture of full release, of tension and consciousness. But, he’s not asleep.

His breathing isn’t shallow; it fluctuates. Hannibal realizes minutes into positioning, Will is attempting to match his own breathing pattern with Hannibal’s. 

When the article is nearing its end, Hannibal tightens his grip on the sides of his keyboard and asks, “Will, are you alright?” 

“Never better,” is nothing more than a soft murmur. He says it with no concept of reality, lost in his own thoughts. Hannibal wants to experience Will’s thoughts viscerally, forcibly. 

When Hannibal closes the laptop and sets it aside, it takes Will two whole minutes to realize they are sitting idly, no longer examining Tattlecrime. 

He sits up in a flurry, clearing his throat. 

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Hannibal levels his gaze with him patiently, reaching across the bed to store his laptop in one of the bedside drawers. Despite his embarrassment, Will doesn’t stand up to leave. 

“Would you feel more comfortable staying here with me tonight?” Hannibal questions. Only then does Will move, one leg off the bed as he glances reluctantly at the door. 

“I wasn’t…You don’t need to offer that.” 

“I think I do.” 

“Yes,” Will says quickly. “Yes, I would. If it were any other night–”

“You needn’t explain yourself, Will.” Hannibal stands and crosses the room, aware that Will’s eyes are on him the entire time. He shuts the lamp on the dresser off. “Why would I deny you what you want?” 

Will doesn’t respond, now a shadowed figure in the dark.

“Come. Let us wash up and get some much needed rest.” 

While adjusting under the comforter had been a civil affair, both allowing the other significant space to settle their limbs and fall asleep with ease, Hannibal wakes to find Will encroaching his space unconsciously, tucked close and head half rested on his pillow 

They aren’t touching. Hannibal had stayed close enough to one side to make sure of that, but Will is so near Hannibal can feel his breath on his shoulder, and can hear him breathing faintly, a rhythmic, comforting noise.

Hannibal has never been one for finding comfort in others; he merely attempts to live life beautifully and to the fullest, his comforts being the décor and atmosphere he surrounds himself with. Never has a person fit into this collage of palatial subsisting he takes part in. 

In the night, Will’s shirt rucked up, enough to expose his belly. 

Without disturbing the man’s slumber, Hannibal discreetly lowers the sheet covering them both to get a better look at the scar he left behind in Baltimore. 

This, he had not allowed himself in Florence. Even while he’d bathed Will. 

A sleepy, agitated grunt falls from Will’s lips as he repositions himself and settles on his back, one arm splaying above his head, unknowingly exposing his body further. 

Hannibal doesn’t resist the urge to touch the scar. 

He’d touched it on the boat coming here, then not having the knowledge of its origin. If he could go back in time, he would have found himself waxing poetic about the nature of the mark, and its meaning in the grand scheme of their isolated connection. 

For now, he’s satisfied stroking his fingers along the ridges, dragging his palm across the length of the pink, faded scar. Will shifts against him, belly quivering with each feather light touch.

Will is half hard, but he was even before Hannibal touched him here. 

Hannibal wonders if morning wood is a regular occurrence with him, or if it is happening just this once, due to his presence in bed. 

The concept of the latter is nauseating in its appeal.

He doesn’t bother retracting his hand when Will’s restless eyes begin to flutter open, escaping the cage of his eyelids. After he blinks away the glossy film containing his night terrors, Will tenses, stomach muscles contracting. 

“You healed nicely,” Hannibal tells him quietly, as not to startle him. Their faces are close, their proximity intimidating to Will who has had absolutely no time to raise his forts and shields. 

“You’ve seen it before,” Will whispers, cumulatively relaxing when Hannibal begins moving his fingertips back and forth again. “In Florence.”

“I was speaking of the one here,” Hannibal murmurs back, reaching out the hand he’d been propped up on to stroke the pinker, raised scar on Will’s cheek. 

Will’s lashes flutter until his eyes are barely open; Hannibal continues to soothe him with mellow movements on both his stomach, and here. 

Belatedly, a quiet “Oh” slips from Will’s lips, and when he opens his eyes, his pupils have blown wide. Hannibal matches the languid, dream-like state Will has been coaxed into, projecting affection like it’s the air he breathes, so Will can feel his love like a physical thing, however muted by the morning glow.

“Will you go back to sleep for me? It is early,” Hannibal requests, accent thick as molasses as he continues to nurse a hushed, encapsulated moment in time. 

So easily manipulated this younger man is to Hannibal’s whims. Will’s eyes shutter, and his body sinks into the mattress the way one does under hypnosis. Hannibal smiles; his agency may be withstanding in the world, but more importantly, his agency in Will Graham’s life hasn’t faltered. 

Hannibal extracts himself from the heated shelter of the bed, and tucks the sheets up around Will’s shoulders, watching him readjust with one soft noise falling from his lips. 

He is struck with an enormous feeling of relief once again, that Will had chosen to stay with him even while he’d been under the disadvantage of his memory lapse. It is relief also, to know that Will chose to stay because they are alone, alone without each other. 

With that lingering thought in mind, he heads off to the kitchen to start breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i was planning on making this one big fic, but a good chunk of this chapter had been sitting in my drafts for ages and i finally decided to post it as a chapter one, so each chapter can bounce back and forth from perspective. next chapter will be will's perspective picking up from where we left off at the end of this chapter here! i think making it shorter chapters will help me to continue it each day without stalling.
> 
> i'm excited to bring you further through the cape verde journey, this is my favorite world i've built for them i think. hope you are all doing quite well, xoxo and i will release more soon!


	2. Chapter 2

Will wakes behind a veil of fog, blinking his sight into the world for good this time. 

Hannibal had wanted him to sleep longer, and he feels as if he must have gotten another hour’s worth at least. The sun is bright, coruscating through the damp window panes. 

For a moment, Will takes in the dew that has formed on the glass.

The world is as still as the silence in the bedroom. Will turns, burrowing his face into Hannibal’s pillow and smelling the sweet musk that he’s come to know for years. 

For the first time in months, Will hasn’t woken up penitent. 

As bone-wrackingly nervous as it makes him, the door to his future has finally swung open, dozens of paths forking off into several new ones, until they diverge ones of their own. With Hannibal present, there is no longer a weight pushing punishingly down on his shoulders. 

Will frowns, lifting up a hand to feel the scar on his cheek. 

_ Hannibal. _

He’s been so busy relishing the burdenless mood he’s found himself in upon waking he’d nearly forgotten that Hannibal had slept in this bed with him the night prior. That he’d woken up with a strong hand on his belly, and had been distracted by warm eyes and soothing words.

By himself, Will’s lip curls up into the beginnings of a snarl. His fists gather up the faultless sheets. If he had long, sharp nails, he could poke holes in the offending thread count.

Will has been so blindsided by his flagrant desperation to see Hannibal restored, he’s allowed Hannibal to make a fool of him. Coax him back to sleep like a pet, mocking him with each caress. 

No doubt he remembers the kiss, and no doubt he believes Will quite the pushover. 

Will sucks in a sharp breath, and breathes out slowly and thoughtfully.

Some residual anger from the night before leaves him, and he finds himself approaching calm. His emotions have been up and down so often lately, perhaps Hannibal is right in giving him space. Requesting that he himself be the one to make that space. 

Another moment lying in the warmth of Hannibal’s bed, and Will is sitting up. 

He waits to hear noise, any noise, but none comes. 

Will’s blood runs cold, and he knocks the sheets off of his body to go wash up. Quickly and efficiently, as he needs to make sure Hannibal is still in the house. 

The heavy fear that Hannibal acted out a scheme in telling Will to sleep longer doesn’t go over his head. Perhaps Hannibal had meant to leave him here alone, or to go out and kill whomever he pleases. It’s been so long since his freedom has been his own, after all. 

Or, even worse, a theory that has haunted the back of Will’s mind before Hannibal’s memories had even taken root back in their rightful place. 

What if Hannibal’s memories slip away once more? 

Is it possible the night before had been conjured by Will’s desperation alone? Or that after Hannibal had slept, his mind had again become as blank as a dead man walking?

Will doesn’t notice himself rushing to the kitchen until he’s skidding to a halt at the archway connecting the kitchen to the hall. Hannibal doesn’t look up startled as he normally would have without his memories; he looks up at him with the curiosity of a cat and a smile wide on his cheeks. 

“Will,” he greets, delighted. “Good morning.” 

“You’re – ” Will’s feet make the steps, against his better judgement. He moves until he’s standing next to Hannibal, close enough to touch. “You’re alright?” 

Hannibal’s expression melts into an arrogant one, chest puffing as he removes his oven mitts. Will regrets asking, but he is having trouble controlling himself with Hannibal being thrust back into his life without warning. 

“I have not succumbed to my amnesia again, if you’re wondering, no.” 

Will tucks his chin, placing his hand on the countertop to keep himself from swaying closer. It’s as if every warning signal his brain had been emitting this morning dissipates into the atmosphere. All he would like to do right now is touch him, feel Hannibal touching him back. 

The bluff feels so long ago, when they’d embraced. 

The battle with the Dragon is yet another topic they’ll need to discuss. He hadn’t thought about it last night, even when he’d been given time at the dinner table to think the new possibilities over. 

He wants to know if Hannibal blames him for dragging them over the edge of the cliff, but as it appears, he doesn’t seem to be holding any ill-will towards him. 

“I’ve made Shakshuka for us, for breakfast,” Hannibal explains. “Though I would have preferred a hot sauce, I made do with the spices in the cabinets.” 

He presents a large, round, ceramic flat bowl with sweet tomatoes and runny yolks spread out like a condensed quiche. There is a large plate by its side with toasted French bread. 

“We could go shopping soon,” Will suggests softly. “If you want more things. I never knew what to get you while you were, well, the way you were.” 

“I believe you’ve been going to the local grocers. I’d like to bring you into the city. There is a wider selection of shops, and the culture is much more vast.” Hannibal cuts into the dish, and cuts out a perfect triangle shape for a small golden-rimmed china plate. He hands the plate to Will along with a fork and knife, then he repeats the action for himself. 

“I’d like that,” Will admits, unsure of what to do with himself. 

“Come, we can discuss matters on the terrace.” 

Hannibal leads a reluctant Will through the house until they reach the stairs leading up to the roof. 

Will fights the rising urge to drop his plate against the marble stairwell as they ascend, but when they arrive on the terrace, Will finds the fresh and hot air to be sedating, lulling him back into a sense of security. 

For a moment, the walls of their villa had been closing in around him. 

They set their plates on the outdoor table, and Will observes there are already two empty glasses and a jug of iced juice, more yellow than orange. 

They sit in silence for a while, enjoying the cool breeze, and the sun set high in the sky, greeting them with an abundance of natural light. 

Will can’t help but feel hideous under it’s exposing rays, but when Hannibal looks at him, it is with the same amount of devotion he offered him the night prior, and this morning. 

It’s been a while since Hannibal looked at him like that.

When he swirls some runny yoke around on his fork and spears a tomato, bringing it to his lips, he blanches at the taste exploding on his tongue. It is better than anything Hannibal had made during his episode, even though Will had thought he’d been cooking at the normal capacity he’s been cooking in for months. 

“I did not know how to utilize my abilities, when I was afflicted,” Hannibal explains, as if knowing precisely what’s on Will’s mind. “I was excited to be able to show off my skills once more. Apologies if the meal is too rich for you this early.”

“No, it’s really good,” Will promises bluntly. His compliments of Hannibal’s food never stretched beyond normal boilerplate compliments, but Hannibal always absorbs them earnestly, and delightedly. 

A bird soars through the sky, cawing as it nears the ocean. 

“I feel like I’m waking up from a dream,” Will murmurs, after washing a tomato down with some juice. “Everything that happened, even just yesterday. It feels decades off, lightyears away.”

Hannibal rubs under his jaw, brow creasing fractionally. 

“Less figuratively, it feels real to me,” Hannibal responds, mirth in his voice, but Will ducks his head to see a reddish-purple bruise forming just under his jawline. He hadn’t seen it before. 

Will scoots his chair closer, pegs scraping against tile. 

He reaches out as Hannibal’s hand falls away and he tilts Hannibal’s chin to get a better look at the mark. It colors the curve underneath his jaw, and when he swipes a thumb over it in a brusk manner, Hannibal tenses. 

“I’m not sure I’ve ever hurt you,” Will whispers, soft. Hannibal meets him with a challenge in his eyes and Will scoffs. “Physically.”

“Matthew Brown?”

Will’s jaw clenches and he mutters, “With my hands, I mean.”

“You’ve wanted to,” Hannibal tells him, taking Will’s hand away from his face and placing it back atop the table. “You could have killed me last night, if you wanted to.”

“I haven’t wanted to in a long time.”

Hannibal’s head inclines, and he sets the fork in his right hand down so he can turn his chair and talk to Will properly. Just with his body language, Will can feel the question bubbling to the surface. 

He answers, before it can escape his lips.

“The bluff, I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask,” Hannibal replies, and Will swallows against the tension in his throat, constricting his airway. “What would you have done if I had died and you had lived, Will?”

The creak of a chair startles Will and he readjusts so that he’s teetering in an uncomfortable position, desperate to maintain the silence. Every second is charged, and he feels hopelessly hollowed out by Hannibal’s words and gaze. Without a glass wall in the institution to hide behind, he’s able to be flayed alive by the man who knows him most in this world. 

“I don’t wonder about that.” 

Will looks away, off toward the ocean. The waves are mild, the tide rolling back out to the center of the sea like it’s being called. 

“I’ve done my fair share of wondering what separation with you would entail. With what happened, I fear I’ve come to understand that separation, to know it’s rusted bars and barbed restrictions. The cold, fatal touch of loneliness. It was worse with you here beside me unable to see me, it was like being taunted with the concept of belonging. Worse than when I couldn’t see you for three years, but knew precisely where you were, where your mind was taking residence. Untarnished and waiting.”

Will taps his fingers against the glass of juice he’s holding, ice perspiring droplets on the outer layer of the cup, the damp sinking into his skin and sending shivers throughout his body. It reminds him of the night prior, dunking Hannibal into the water like a rabid beast. 

Feeling the water cascade around them, incapable of penetrating through the forts of Hannibal’s mind. 

“I meditated on what would have happened if you had woken up and known who I was when your gaze fell upon me,” he adds, quieter than before. “I fantasized about it.”

“Did you feel destitute, on the wrong path?”

“I felt alone, Hannibal. Even when I played at acceptance, I felt alone.”

“Do you feel alone now?” Hannibal asks, clear as the scent of the sea breezing by them in a rush. Will shakes his head, very slowly in response. 

“You told me at one point in the last few months, that you were not satisfied we had lived. Are you still feeling this way?” 

Hannibal’s therapy-voice has taken form, but Will isn’t perturbed. 

“The feelings will linger. I’ve never been able to discard an influence entirely, but now I feel myself leaning more on the arm of potential. I don’t want to remain in the purgatory of my own making.” 

“You don’t have to,” Hannibal promises, darkly. “Not anymore.” 

Will manages a weak smile, and scoops up another portion of his meal. It has grown lukewarm out in the wind. It doesn’t matter to him as he lets the muted tastes disperse in his mouth. 

“Unless you mean by that sentiment, that you want to leave Cape Verde.”

“No,” Will clarifies, smile wonky but present. “I haven’t left the house more than twice, and I’d like to get something out of coming here. And now that you’re back to normal, we – ”

His throat abruptly tightens, visions of the kiss flooding back to him. 

Fortunately, Hannibal has mercy on him.

“We have much to discuss, Will. Much more than could be handled over a small breakfast. Gift-wrapped closure belongs in the mystique, with mythos and legends. We will not find it directly in our conversation, or in the time span you expect.” 

“I know,” Will mutters, fingers clenching around the handle of his fork and unclenching. “It would have been easier, all of this would have been easier if you hadn’t lost your memories.”

Hannibal takes in a deep breath and the sigh he releases is listless. 

“Because I’m not sure if I’ve said it directly,” Hannibal stiffens his posture, but his gaze is affectionate when it falls upon Will’s face, “I’ve missed you, Will.”

Will gives a short sigh, lips tightening to avoid the rising elation. 

“I’ve missed you too, Hannibal.” 

There is no point in pretending otherwise. Not when Hannibal can remember every drunken tear, every mournful gaze, the sight of his fingers without a wedding band to adorn them. 

“Will you indulge me with something?” he asks, eyes imploring. 

“Will it hurt?”

“No, it won’t,” Hannibal promises and he sounds so jubilantly earnest that Will cannot help but nod, and agree silently to any number of his potential whims. 

Hannibal stands and folds his napkin to place under his plate. He reaches out a hand and Will deliberates before taking it and getting hauled up to his feet. They are close, too close for comfort. Hannibal is curling a strand of hair behind his ear, and before Will can even think about retreating, he is being pulled into an embrace. 

“Hannibal – ”

“You said you would indulge me,” Hannibal reminds in his ear and Will closes his lips, grateful for an excuse not to protest. He winds his arms around Hannibal’s back after a moment, one hand searching for his broad right shoulder, gripping the fabric there. 

He is suddenly starkly aware he is still in his pajamas, and Hannibal is dressed for the day, but the concern is dismissed when he finds he can feel Hannibal’s pulse, pumping away in his neck. Will pushes his forehead against it, sighing out every thread of tension within. 

Hannibal has one arm around his waist, keeping him snug against him, and his other cradling his head, stroking his hair as he keeps his head pressed against the skin above his collar. 

Will focuses on the rapid thumping of his own heartbeat, compares it to Hannibal’s, and is only slightly embarrassed in how frantic it is compared to Hannibal’s. 

He can’t say how much time has passed when Hannibal finally peels them apart, only allowing a few inches between them.

“Come swimming with me,” Hannibal requests, low voice and docile eyes. Will is taken aback by how often Hannibal appears as a man rather than a vicious, victorious beast. 

Will doesn’t process the question, incapable of doing so with Hannibal so close to him, touching him lightly in several places. For a moment, he physically can’t tear his grip off of Hannibal’s shoulder, afraid the warmth and belonging he feels will slip through his fingers once again.

“Alright,” he agrees breathlessly, and melts at the toothy smile Hannibal gives in response. 

“Let us finish breakfast, and we can head out to the water,” Hannibal tells him, giddy as he leaves Will’s side to sit back down. Will barely finds his footing, trembling as he sits opposite to Hannibal.

When had he become so intoxicated by Hannibal’s touch? 

Or is it the lingering relief that comes with finally being able to connect with him again, or worse, will every time they touch feel just like it had felt on the cliff? A shining, miraculous, devastating connection buzzing through him that feels like nothing can peak beyond it? 

Will realizes stepping into his swimming trunks that this is a mistake. He doesn’t want to swim, nor does he want to go out and stare into the sea, reminded of the past.

But, he agreed.

Hannibal had dwindled his defenses down, until he had been too distracted to fully understand the gravity of his decision. Can he be angry at something so textbook? 

It’s not as if he can accuse Hannibal of wielding physical affection against him, especially when he’s not even sure if Hannibal is doing it knowingly. This attraction, gravitation he feels toward Hannibal is not the deliverance of burden he pictured. 

He finds himself yearning and confused, agitated by his own ignorance. 

If Hannibal had swooped in with a kiss, with urgent, loving hands the moment after he’d been reawakened, he wouldn’t have been surprised. He could work from there, but Hannibal, entirely restored, is giving him gentle touches, timidly if he could be timid. And everything he thought he knew about Hannibal is suddenly being presented under a magnifying glass. Perhaps there are layers he hasn’t considered; perhaps Bedelia had been wrong. 

Hannibal meets him in the foyer, waiting by the doormat with beige swimming trunks, and a black towel tossed around his neck. He has no shirt on, unlike the past few months where he’d wear a loose button-up down to the beach. He must want Will to see the strength in his muscles, and where the institution’s uniform insinuated a paunch where there isn’t one. 

Will has the strange urge to tell him he doesn’t need to show off, that his appearance is the last thing that matters to him. 

Will is wearing a shirt though, and his towel is draped over his shoulders like a shall. He still doesn’t know if he’s going to step foot in the water. 

The walk is quick and searing. The sun is still beating down on them, unrelenting in its heat and brightness. Just for this fact, Will might consider hopping between the waves.

There is barely a soul in sight when they reach the beach, and Hannibal places their towels down flat where the dry sand meets the damp. After ripping his shirt off, Will stretches atop his towel and raises a teasing brow at Hannibal’s unamused expression.

“You have a problem with me getting a tan?” 

“You promised me you would swim.”

“Where in the word ‘alright’ does it say ‘I promise’?” Will asks, unfolding his legs to lay flat as a fish on a cutting board. “Did we bring any sunscreen?” 

“Allow me,” Hannibal says, digging into the black satchel Will hadn’t noticed he’d lugged along. There are water bottles, sunglasses, two bottles of suntan lotion. He squirts some on his hands, and Will scoops it out of his palm with his fingers. 

“I can do it,” he grumbles, spreading some on his sternum, thighs, calves, forehead, nose. Hannibal eyes him all the while, but with stern, beady pupils. Will assumes he won’t tolerate any part of his skin left to simmer. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d prefer me deep fried.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, squeezing more lotion into his palm. Will thinks he’s going to give up on swimming and slather himself up, but he moves closer on his knees and brings the white sunscreen to his cheek scar. 

With a furrowed brow, Will tolerates it as he rubs the stuff against the mark. Even months after the fact, it smarts. He hisses through his teeth when Hannibal drags his fingers away. 

“Left exposed to the sun, scars tend to darken,” Hannibal explains, rubbing the last of the stuff on Will’s stomach. Will jumps when his fingertips dip just beneath his waistband as he works the lotion into his skin. “You missed most of your skin here.” 

“Thanks,” he grunts. “Go swim.”

Hannibal’s head tilts, observing him a moment long before he gets up and trots off to the water. The satchel is left open beside Will, and Will has to fight himself not to grab the spare towel he sees and wipe himself off. He feels sticky; disgusting. 

He gets used to it by the time Hannibal returns, plopping down on his towel. Will is already reaching into the bag to toss him the other one. 

Hannibal is dripping, water darkening his chest chair, and he’s breathing hard like he just ran a mile, but he’d only gone for a few laps. Nothing more. 

“How’s the bullet wound?” Will asks carefully, reaching out and hesitating for a moment before he bends the towel to dry the dripping hair sticking out on the right side of his head. 

Hannibal pants, flashing a smile. 

“Fairly well. I should have been exercising more, though.”

“I’m sorry. I should have focused more on your condition,” Will murmurs, laying back down flat. The sun is starting to become hot, the warmth turning scalding. 

Hannibal turns on his side playfully, in a movement so quick it looks as if it should agitate his wound, but he’s smiling, youthful and unphased. 

“How can I convince you to release your remorse?” 

Will chuckles at the absurdity of the question. 

“Am I remorseful?” he questions. 

“Terribly. There is no need to be.” 

“Guilt isn’t just something you can discard, Hannibal,” Will explains, gaze flickering towards the waves; the tide is coming in now. “As much as I’d rather be feeling joyous.”   


“Will.” Hannibal says his name so fervently, he turns his head to make eye contact. Holds it even when he desperately wishes to look away. 

Hannibal reaches out, taking one of Will’s hands in both his own. Will’s lips part, and his breath catches when he lifts his knuckles up to kiss, one by one until he has kissed them all. Then, he cradles it in mid-air, looking at him with a lover’s radiance. 

“There are many things I wish to discuss with you, that I do not wish to discuss with you here, at our home. Nor the beach. Would you come have dinner with me tonight, in the city?” 

“Are you asking me on a date?” The question slips out of Will’s mouth, without rhyme or reason. Out of his control. “Hell, forget I said that.” 

Hannibal allows Will to retract his hand with every ounce of shame he can muster, but Hannibal’s smile has shifted, curious and pleased at the prospect. 

“Would you like it to be a date?” 

“Don’t change the subject,” Will bites out. “You’re asking me to dinner. Fine, I’ll go.” 

Hannibal smirks, and though Will isn’t looking at him, he can feel those deep eyes of his watching every squirm and twitch, every incidental flutter of stomach muscles and fan of his lashes as he attempts to mask his discomfort. 

“Very well. It is settled.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is much easier to write small chapters for this because it really encourages me to write everyday. but i feel like eventually these chapters are gonna start becoming long, so i'll try to keep them around the 3k mark as much as i can to keep the same vibe. i am probs gonna start writing the next one right now tho, hope y'all enjoyed xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal doesn’t dismiss the fact Will’s showers have become shorter. 

In the last few months, Will has spent longer than an hour beneath the showerhead, until the spray of the water ran cold no doubt. At first Hannibal in his naïve, hamstrung mindset believed that it had been for sexual relief, but now he knows better. 

The shower was Will’s escape. Long minutes spent dispelling bad memories and the looming reality of separation were the only moments in time he could become loose with alleviation. The spell would evaporate, as the hot water would become lukewarm, skin no longer scalding, and his reality would come back to him like a bad aftertaste. 

Now, his shower runs no longer than ten minutes. 

Will is eager to return to Hannibal, eager to make sure this dream hasn’t slipped through his fingers. He’s spent so long trepidatiously balancing one foot after the other on a tightrope, he doesn’t know what it feels like to walk on level ground once more without teetering. 

The water shuts off, and Hannibal retreats back into his bedroom from where he’d been standing frozen in front of the bathroom door. 

On his bed, he lays out a slim, unused suit he ordered for Will years ago, before his incarceration. 

Each safe house had been stock full of tailored suits, dress shoes in Will’s size, combs specifically designed for Will’s type of locks. As it stands, Will hasn’t yet delved fully into the wardrobes other than for sweaters and undershirts. 

As he suspected, Will still damp from the shower appears at the open doorway to his bedroom, and Hannibal turns to find a grey silk robe sticking to him, his hair flat across his forehead. 

“Am I running late?” he asks, as an excuse to check in on Hannibal. Hannibal smiles and glances at the clock on the dresser. 

“You have an hour. Then we will depart.” 

Will eyes him, head to toe, and then disappears. The scent of cucumber and green tea body wash disappears with him, down the hall. Hannibal waits a proper amount of time, then takes the unused suit by its hanger and follows him. 

He knocks once before entering, but Will is rightfully startled. 

He’s in a baggy pair of boxers, and that won’t do.

“I would suggest wearing briefs with this.” Hannibal keeps his tone curt and to the point, not leaving much room for argument. “This particular suit does not come with a dress shirt. I would suggest the crimson sweater I’ve left for you in your closet.”

Another bit of maneuvering Hannibal had done while Will had been in the shower. The room he’d assumed Will would pick back when he’d purchased the house had not been the one he chose when they arrived. There were several outfits to transfer into the barren closets. 

Will doesn’t look pleased, vexation in his eyes when he glances at the open closet door. 

Will then lifts the suit from Hannibal’s fingers in a two-fingered pinch, and holds it up to himself, more as a cover from Hannibal’s wandering eyes, and his own dignity. 

“Am I supposed to say thank you for dressing me up like a house pet?” Will grumbles, and at least his habit of being discomfited by gifts remains. His cheeks are pink from the shower, and if he were blushing, it would be a good excuse to hide behind.

“Did you often dress up your dogs?” 

Will pauses, sighing and gesticulating wildly at the door until Hannibal takes the hint and leaves him alone. He closes the door behind him, and ventures off to dress himself. 

“The sweater itches,” Will announces in the car, slipping his fingers beneath the turtleneck to scratch at his throat. Hannibal frowns, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Cashmere is not meant to itch, especially not cashmere this expensive.” 

“Not the fabric, just–” Will stretches out the loose fabric of the neck, taking several deep breaths. “ _–_ _Turtlenecks._ They make me claustrophobic, which makes me uncomfortable, which makes me itchy.” 

“You need not have chosen it, if that is the case.”

“You picked it out!” 

“I suggested,” Hannibal recalls, meeting Will’s glare with a smile until Will softens, and turns his gaze to the houses and flat sand plains passing them by. When enough time passes for Will’s agitation to subside, Hannibal knows he can risk a quiet, “You do look quite alluring.” 

“If you put _anyone_ in a two hundred dollar suit, I’m sure they’d look more alluring than they normally do,” Will responds. He’s picking at his nails, fighting for balance when there is no endpoint in sight for when they can leave the car.

“Two hundred dollars?” Hannibal asks, bordering on offended. “Are you sure you were the one handling my accounts?”

“Okay, what, five hundred?”

Hannibal smirks, and Will balks, voice growing small.

“More?”

“Try two thousand, give or take.”

“Give or take?” Will’s hand is on the center console and he’s leaning over the scant space between them. “Explain.”

“Perhaps nearer to three thousand,” Hannibal admits, feigning sheepish. He doesn’t regret spending his wealth on Will, in fact he downright adores doing so. It was something akin to a drug trip, spending one evening in Baltimore adding suit upon suit to an online shopping cart, and shipping them off in several directions, all over the world. Ready and waiting for Will to arrive and claim.

“You do realize, my wardrobe before we met was mostly from the Salvation Army,” Will tells him, tugging mindlessly at the fitted lapels. “I barely had more than four outfits in my closet.”

“Did you not often splurge the money you made because you grew up poor?” 

“You’ve been poor before.” Will’s eyes are on him as he deflects, blazing and unrelenting in their scrutiny. “You told me so, before you were found by your uncle in the orphanage. And yet, you spend like you’re going to die tomorrow.”

Hannibal smiles. “Am I not above such clichés as ‘live like it’s your last day’?”

Will scoffs, and Hannibal continues.

“I have far too much money, Will. I’m not a generous man at my core. I’ve never felt the urge to splurge on charities, or acquaintances. I do care to share my lifestyle, in the way of dinner parties and opera invitations, but never have I been so inspired to spend my fortune on anyone. Or to allow anyone the same luxuries that I allow myself, until I met you.” 

Will is silent for another half hour, fingers tracing around the stick shift, restless like they want to leap forward and grasp for something made of flesh and blood. 

“So, I guess that means you won’t let me pay for dinner,” Will murmurs eventually, having gone still for a while. When Hannibal turns, he can see he is stiff with humor, not with tension. 

Hannibal can recognize the tease as what it is. Will’s finances had been cut off the moment they arrived. Cards were destroyed, thrown into the water, traces of their whereabouts cut off from the world. Molly will be left with his accounts, not to be touched by Will’s hand ever again. 

Will is entirely dependent on Hannibal, and he knows it. 

“I wouldn’t dream of letting you,” Hannibal responds playfully, eyes returning to the road.

The sun is setting just behind the understated swell of the hill they’re ascending. Soon, they will be within the confines of Mindelo, the area of Cape Verde that is populated with hundreds of men and women. An area that is overflowing with community and music. It is more than possible that Will will become overwhelmed and that, that more than anything, is all Hannibal can strive for.

The restaurant Hannibal is familiar with, having been there once during his real estate travels, is a fairly quaint four star establishment called _La Pergola._ Will is aporetic when it comes to the exterior of the building, mentioning quietly that he can’t picture Hannibal eating in a place as plebeian as this. 

Without comment, Hannibal leads him inside. Here, Will sees that the baby blue coloring of the building does not extend inside where the homey and professional golds and browns take residence. There are separators between tables, covered in vines as if the interior were a jungle in the making. 

Will and Hannibal, with a reservation made by Hannibal earlier in the evening, are led through the small crowds and upstairs to a balcony. The dining tables upstairs are spread further out, a dance floor spread out in the center for the evening when the conviviality predictably becomes infectious.

Will appears happy to escape to the balcony, outdoors and away from the prying eyes of guests and possible tourists. Hannibal wants this to be a comfortable excursion for him, even if he means to bring about topics that go against the grain of the light atmosphere they’ve discovered. 

“It feels good to go out,” Will confesses, looking over the menu. Hannibal views the adequate selection as he continues. “Never thought I’d mean that, but I feel like my limbs are waking up, along with my mind. Like I _should_ be moving after shaking off the pins and needles.”

Hannibal gazes longingly at the dance floor, but Will doesn’t notice. 

“You’ve been keeping your eye on me. Ever since I’ve recovered. For the first time, you seem relaxed enough to take in your surroundings, rather than fret on my expense.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Will delineates, waving a hand around at the restaurant. “Taking me out, thrusting me into a new atmosphere knowing full well I’ve become unsoundly accustomed to the same old walls at home.”

Hannibal bows his head in admission. “I felt a new location could help you put into words, your unfiltered wants and needs. If you have nothing familiar to grasp onto, you’re not as concerned with my mind slipping back to that familiar, amnestic state you fear. Here, you can focus on yourself.”

“Are we to go out to dinner every time you want to ask how I’m feeling?” Will barbs, folding the menu back down. Hannibal can’t tell if he’s decided what to eat or not. “That’s hardly sustainable.”

“Not every time, no. I have considered a retreat, however, in the short time I’ve had my memories restored. It could offer you the same freedom, a new location for a clearer headspace, if you will.” 

Will straightens in his seat, head turning fractionally as footsteps approach. 

Hannibal can tell he’s muddling over the idea in his head as they order. Hannibal orders an extravagant plate, the most expensive dish on the menu. It involves cod and enriching sea minerals. Will orders a black bean burger, with a kale and beets salad.

“Where?” Will asks, wary as ever, when the waiter leaves. 

“Ribeira Grande, the largest town in the municipality. There are several hiking trails, a resort hut I could rent for the both of us. You feel at home in nature, and I’d like to give you the opportunity to explore the caves and mountains here. That was my intention purchasing the property, and I think more than ever you deserve a getaway.”

Dry laughter rattles out of Will, and he looks at Hannibal as if he’s grown a second head.

“This _already_ feels like a getaway. A vacation.”

Hannibal allows himself a wide smile, fond of the prospect Will has never been treated to a genuine luxury retreat in his life. He would give him the world if he could, or in the very least, the moon. So Will could always bask in the moonlight, knowing it is his own because Hannibal wishes for it to be so. 

“Would you like another?” Hannibal decides to ask, instead of convincing Will that their home here is nothing more than that, a home. Swimming, drawing, and spending their days lounging and relaxing is only a part of natural living. 

“With you?”

“Who else?” 

“For a moment, I thought perhaps you’d want to send me alone.” 

For all that he knows about Will, Hannibal does not understand this reluctance to fully acknowledge their newfound connection, the life that has given them a second-chance. 

“Do you truly believe that the sight of you doesn’t arouse my senses, in every way it arouses your own?” Hannibal questions outright, and Will’s breath quickens, fingers tangling in the napkin on his lap. “You think too little of me if you believe I do not bask in every moment we spend with one another, as if it were fleeting.” 

“I don’t–” Will’s teeth grind when he forces down the high-pitched breathy noise dragged out with his pacey breathing, and erratically pumping heart. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me, and I haven’t exactly felt as if we’ve been on equal playing fields when it comes to intentions. Not since you got your memories back.” 

“But, you don’t feel alone,” Hannibal clarifies, to make sure.

“No, I feel, _hell,_ I feel better than I have in years,” Will admits unsteadily. “There’s just this divide. I feel starved and circumspect when it comes to you. The bitter part of me had expected to be dragged forward in whichever direction you deemed fit for us, with your teeth sunk into my nape.” 

“Do you want me to make your decisions for you?” 

“Have I ever?”

“No, but my influence has led us here regardless. Did losing me for those few months make you realize that you depend on my influence more than you realize?”

“If we’re talking about codependency, I think we’ve already established we wouldn’t survive separation,” Will remarks tartly, “but I’m not asking you to make my decisions for me.”

Hannibal folds his hands under his chin, watching Will with unbridled admiration, until Will’s lip curls up in the barest of snarls. 

“Last time you looked at me like that at a dinner table, I ended up with this,” Will reminds, pushing his hair back to reveal the pale thin line decorating his forehead. Hannibal sighs from the memory. 

Instead of reassuring Will he no longer intends to eat him, Hannibal chooses another topic that he’d been eager to discuss for years, locked away and wondering what his next words to Will would be, and when. 

“Did you know the chicken soup I served you in the hospital all those years ago had not contained a single victim?” 

The air that pushes out of Will’s nose sounds close to a laugh. 

“Not a single victim, but three? Four?” 

“It was merely chicken soup.” Hannibal purses his lips. “As you so eloquently declared.” 

“I call it how I see it, Hannibal,” Will responds lightly, but there’s color in his cheeks again. Hannibal has succeeded in bringing him back to a gentler, easier mood. 

The urge to shatter it once again is tempting. As always, Will gives him the perfect opportunity to do as such. The younger man stammers out the next question, generously flustered. 

“So, the dinner was about the retreat? I–Is that all you wanted to discuss?” 

The precious, softening, discomposure of Will’s affection is a wondrous thing to behold, and Hannibal cannot help but to urge it forward as if it were a hungry, stray beast, lost in the wild. 

“You kissed me, Will.”

Hannibal states this with no inflection in his voice, disallowing Will from reading his expression or mood. Will may try to depend on his empathy for this conversation, but Hannibal wants to watch him flounder, babble, redden with a bewildered blush. 

It isn’t quite what Hannibal expected. 

Will’s expression turns cold, and he glares out at the civilians below. There is glistening wetness in his eyes, but Hannibal can’t sense sorrow even with nostrils flared. Perhaps a crippling rage, bubbling to the surface after so long being locked in a dense corridor within his mind. 

“I was drunk,” Will tells him, voice tight. 

Disappointment is not what Hannibal expected to experience diving into this topic. He frowns, and swallows down the irrational, volatile feelings rising to the surface in reaction. He wishes then that he’d purchased champagne for their meal, or alcohol of any kind. 

“You were drunk nearly every day,” Hannibal reminds him quietly, with a menacing edge. “Forgive me for implying it was a conscious decision on your part.” 

Will’s eyes snap to his, and when he sees Hannibal isn’t mocking him, he sulks back. His lips part and his gaze flickers back and forth, furiously trying to understand. 

“I thought,” Will licks his trembling lips, “I thought you were, um, I thought you were trying to make fun. Just now.” 

A needle could drop and be heard in the silence that follows.

Hannibal’s head tilts, feeling disoriented with the direct shift.

“Even if I were not to feel the way I feel for you, do you think I would stoop as low as to mock you for your feelings toward me?” 

Will winces. “No,” he admits. “Hannibal, I’m not even sure what my own feelings mean, _are._ I couldn’t begin to process yours. I’m a man who’s only ever looked at women, I rarely even thought about you like that, until, until you mentioned remembering the gallery, I…”

Hannibal lets the words sit, about to reply when Will perks up, blinking fast.

“But, you–you’re–” he sucks in a sharp breath, voice coming out small, “You didn’t kiss me back. I thought maybe that signified something.” 

“And yet you posed for me half nude on the villa’s terrace,” Hannibal reminds, flirtatiously. “After the fact and often, I might add.”

“Hannibal,” Will protests lightly, ducking away from his insistent eyes. “Before you recovered, I felt like I was getting away with something. You were like a different person. I could indulge without consequence.” 

“I assure you I was there for every dance, every stroke of charcoal, and all the while you were kissing me, Will. I was never far off. I’ll have you know that while I hadn’t understood your intentions, I regretted not kissing you back.” 

Will’s eyes trail slowly up until he’s staring at the space just below Hannibal’s eyes, incapable of making that final leap to meet his tender stare.

Hannibal reaches across the table, and braids their fingers together. Will closes his eyes, releasing a deliberate sigh as he sinks against the edge of the table. 

“You were never so malleable when it came to touch,” Hannibal whispers, noting every flutter of breath when he rubs a thumb over his knuckles. 

“We never touched like _this,_ ” Will whispers back. 

“Not until–”

“Dolarhyde–”

“Yes,” Hannibal murmurs. Will opens his eyes, and they shine beneath a lantern’s dim glow. The sun has fully set beyond the hills, and the night sky is a deep blue. It makes Will’s gaze appear radiant, otherworldly in their hue. 

The sound of plates clattering from downstairs startles Will out of his spellbound trance, and he retracts his hand in one swift flurry. 

Hannibal would feel covetous, blaringly homicidal, toward the originator of the noise if he had not just been filled to the brim with requited affection, an acknowledgement of their love. However small, it made the world momentarily sparkle.

The music muffled by the doors connecting the balcony to the second floor dining hall begins to obtrude a saucier beat, bringing with it couples of various ages to swish their hips and samba inexpertly around the dancefloor. 

“Dance with me,” Hannibal implores, feeling bold. 

“What?” Will asks, in a tizzy. “You’re not serious.” 

“I am quite serious.” 

“You’re a man and I’m a man.”

“And the night is young,” Hannibal declares, standing and stretching. Bones pop and creak. The wound in his stomach protests, but he channels the pain into his newfound adrenaline. He holds out a hand to Will whose eyes are darting every which way, as if he expects someone to come and arrest them.

“Hannibal, even if this wasn’t a ridiculous idea, I wouldn’t dance in public.” Will continues, panic rising up in his throat with each word. He can tell Hannibal is deciding to go, with or without him. 

Hannibal vanishing out of sight is a fear worse than dancing in front of others. 

“The fact we are men will not cross anyone’s mind. Brothers dance with brothers, sisters with sisters. But, if you are not feeling up to it,” Hannibal leans down to speak close to his ear, “I can always offer my hand to another.” 

A cheap move playing on Will’s jealousy, but he’s feeling provocative in every sense. He leaves the balcony the next moment, allowing Will to come to him as he scouts the room for a potential dance partner. 

There are several couples undulating on the dance floor, much more physical with the music than Hannibal would care to be, but the beat lends itself to almost any style of upbeat dance.

He spots a group of women, Northern European by appearance, and he’s sauntering over with his eyes on the older, blonde woman.

She resembles Bedelia. This, he fully acknowledges.

He’d expected to at least get as far as asking her if she would like to dance, but Will is grabbing his wrist and tugging him backward until he finds his footing on the dance floor. 

“You’re dead,” Will blusters, nerves making him shake. Hannibal can feel it where his hands have found his waist, and in Will’s fingertips where he’s gripping his shoulders. “One.” 

“One it is,” Hannibal compromises with delight, pulling Will closer to the center of the dance floor. Will ducks his head, paying attention to their feet, for longer than necessary. Hannibal nudges his forehead with his own until Will looks up and softens, anger dissipating like dust. 

The dance doesn’t last for longer than five minutes, but is one of the most frenetic, enjoyable occasions Hannibal has ever experienced. Real in the way dancing with Bedelia in Italy hadn’t been, and intimately close to Will in every way he dreamed could never come to pass. 

By the end, Will’s cheek has found its way to Hannibal’s. 

One move, and their lips could be touching.

Before gravitation can claim them both, Hannibal separates them. Will looks bereaved, but silently retreats through the crowds to their table outside. 

Will is standing with his hands wrapped around the fence barrier on the balcony. When Hannibal arrives by his side, he realizes the winds have picked up. 

“Will you shy from me if I kiss you when we return home?”

Will’s head swerves, taken aback. He’s flushed head to toe, from the dance, from exerting himself in front of others in such a way. He looks battered with affection, unable to handle it brimming over the edge of what he assumed would contain the fallout. 

“Just a kiss?”

“Just a kiss.”

“Right when we cross the threshold? Or before bed?”

Hannibal chuckles, crossing his arms. “This type of intimacy isn’t meant to be planned. I would not want it to be so charged between us.”

“Everything between us is charged,” Will mutters, glancing out at the darkening sky. “Every breath of rage I feel expounds upon itself, every shudder of want is like breaking in half.” 

“You haven’t answered my question.” 

Will turns back, cast in shadows now. 

“I want it.” 

The words are music to Hannibal’s ears. 

“And so you shall have it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiking trip with caves and lightning coming soon, it'll be sexey. next chapter is more talking though, and potential softness ;) because these two can't shut up.


	4. Chapter 4

Will’s senses are on fire by the time they pull into the driveway. 

Hannibal smiles at him faintly before taking the keys from the ignition and heads toward the gate surrounding their villa. Will’s heart pounds in his chest when Hannibal glances back, the carefree expression clear as ever, before he continues on into the house. 

Opening the car door doesn’t give Will the fresh air he’d been hoping for. Breathing heavy, against the grain of the harsh breeze, he trudges up the gravel walkway. He doesn’t need to open the front door; Hannibal left it open for him.

When he shuts the door, he isn’t swept up, pushed up against a wall, or approached. Hannibal in fact, is missing from the foyer.

Noises erupt from the kitchen, and Will’s curiosity outstrips his nerves. 

When Will finds him, he is efficiently removing bottles from the wine rack and placing them in storage cartons, stacking them delicately. The pieces don’t click together. He doesn’t understand. 

“Hannibal, what are you doing?” Will asks, the kiss forgotten for now. 

“You agreed with me, at the end of dinner, that you have in fact been harboring an alcohol problem the last few months,” Hannibal states. Will remembers agreeing to that truth, but it was an acknowledgement, nothing more. It was brought about near the end of their meal, after Will had been stuffed and plied with delicious, heavy foods. 

“And?”

“And so, I’m cutting out temptation.”

Hannibal continues stacking the bottles. They’re almost all gone, and the empty spaces in the wine rack make Will antsy on a level he hadn’t expected. 

“You, uh, don’t need to hide them, Hannibal. If you think it’s best I don’t touch them for a while, I can manage that.” Will watches the last bottle enter a second wooden carton. With a dry throat, he watches Hannibal lift them both, and carry them down the hall. 

Will turns to follow until he hears a muffled, “Stay put.”

Will does, reluctantly, left questioning if Hannibal sees him as an addictive personality. 

He decides it's a human failing that he is suddenly bombarded with the urge to drink. He paces the kitchen, dress shoes clicking over the tiles as he waits. Hannibal takes longer than he deems necessary, and when he returns, his words come out acidic. 

“So, I’m not allowed to have a drink unless you say it’s alright. Is that it?” 

Hannibal appears unmoved by Will’s offense. Crossing the room, he assures his next action is in Will’s line of sight, deliberately sliding a key into his back pocket. 

“You may have a drink whenever you please. I believed this would be easier on you, if I were there to pour one for you, and warn you against dangerous intake.”

“You’re making my decisions for me.” Will bristles, cornering him close to the sink. “When I distinctly told you that’s the opposite of what I wanted.”

“Must I spell out for you why this isn’t the case?” 

“I don’t like being restricted in my own home,” Will mumbles, his own nails biting at his palms. God, he’s never wanted a drink more than now, but he refuses to ask Hannibal his permission. 

Hannibal merely smiles, cheeks rising proudly. 

“It is quite satisfying to hear you refer to this place as your home so often,” he says, ignoring Will’s spiraling temper. “Have you not acclimated faster than you would have anticipated?”

_Changing the subject. Some things never change._

“I had to,” Will bites out, turning to leave the kitchen. The fluorescents disturb his eyes, making him itch with agitation. Hannibal follows, never one to leave a conversation in the air. Will’s finds his voice again once he’s close enough to the living room to feel the rug under his shoes. “You keep referring to the way I act, like I’m acting in a play. Putting on a show. The world may be a show for you, Hannibal, but not for me. I found no delight in waiting for you to recover, and with every second you’re here I feel like you expect all these brutal, fantastic things from me. But, there isn’t anything I’ve wanted other than you being back.” 

“I expect only you,” Hannibal murmurs. Will can feel his eyes on the back of his neck, hear his voice approaching. “Did you believe you would disappoint me?”

“Did you believe I’d depend on you? In all things?”

“The actions you took while I was incapacitated lent themselves to that text. Do we not all wish to depend on those we choose to share our spaces with?” 

“Hannibal.” Will turns on his heels and slumps back against the back of the couch, leaning his weight against it. “I rushed into things, trying to get you back. It wasn’t just as if a limb had been severed, it was like losing an eye, my sight. I had absolutely no mental connection to you, and it was then, and only then, I realized there couldn’t be one without the other.”

“Losing an eye means losing depth perception,” Hannibal contends. 

Will looks at him with understanding, fear coiling taut in his gut. 

“I fear that, I do need you to–to decide where home is, to decide when I can drink. I’m afraid of needing this dependence on you, afraid even more of wanting it. Those three years without you, Hannibal, were like dancing in limbo.”

Molly and Walter had been a beautiful dream, spending each day fussing over each and every moment. Dwelling on the concept of family, and bathing in the muted glow of belonging. But, the knowledge that the day would come when it would end, and the dream would be shaken off like drops from an oceans rousing waves, had always been present. 

“I knew then, you’d step into my life again.” Will grips the cushions, finding them having too much give underneath his calloused hands. “I tried to send you away somewhere I wouldn’t know where to find you. That was the only way I knew I’d be able to separate myself for good. Even if it killed me.” 

Will swallows and whispers dead quiet, “But, you knew better.”

“I knew _you,_ ” Hannibal corrects, surveying the room with a glib veneer. “You’d anticipated so intently what would happen when we finally broke free into the world, that you can’t dissect your genuine feelings from your hesitations, not after what transpired after the fall.”

“Have we melded together so intricately, have I been so dedicated to channeling who you were while you were absent, that I can never go back to feeling like myself?” Will asks bleakly, nearly rhetorical. 

“Perhaps if you allow yourself to relish our survival now, rather than sequester yourself away out of a long unpracticed distrust you refuse to shed, you can begin to let go of the fear.”

“If I relish it, it will sour,” Will responds, biting his cheek so as to not scream.

If he gets close to Hannibal, allows him to control his life as intimately as he allowed him in the first months of their friendship, he doesn’t know what doors that will leave open to him. And, he doesn’t know if his desire to give into Hannibal’s desire to mold and shape is deriving from the same affection that rose up in the man’s absence. 

Hannibal clicks his tongue, hands sliding into his pockets. 

“Do you believe there is anything left to be changed between us?”

Will’s brow furrows and he keeps his face tight, lips pressed together. There’s a scream, perched on his chin, as there nearly always is. Tears riding up beneath his eyelids, burning and thrashing.

“I don’t know,” he sputters, running hands over his face. The room doesn’t evaporate; Hannibal is still in front of him. He’s not sure if he’s relieved. “You tell me.”

“I want you to call this place home, and be comfortable by that fact. I want to help you coast through these days without a single ailment.” Hannibal appears inconscient by whatever he is picturing in his mind. “I want you to find us beautiful again.”

“I do,” Will whispers reverently. “What we did was beautiful, Hannibal. But, there’s forts I can’t demolish. There’s been this nagging in my mind, like a fly circling around and around my head, a voice telling me you’re going to tear the rug out from under me.”

“What do you believe would be under the rug?”

Will pauses, abruptly self-aware of the blood-and-thunder conversation they’re having. This is what Hannibal is here for, to talk about his concerns, his trepidation. It doesn’t make it any less overwhelming, but he supposes he may be overthinking everything. 

Perhaps, he needs to attempt and compromise. Allow Hannibal to lead, however seldom, and accept these gestures as openly as he can manage. 

“One big cauldron of chicken soup,” Will mutters, lips twitching up in a warped smile. Warped from his scar, and from feeling like every conversation with Hannibal is akin to acupuncture. 

Hannibal grins, closer now than he had been. 

Will braces himself for a kiss, but Hannibal ventures back off into the kitchen. Will doesn’t have time to process the lost build-up before Hannibal is returning with a small ceramic bowl of beets. 

He hands him a fork and explains, “Beets are a beneficial snack for recovering alcoholics.”

Perhaps backhanded comments are _Hannibal’s_ way of breaking the ice. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t be so wary of a man who feeds me beets, calls me an alcoholic, and still expects me to kiss him later,” Will remarks, lifting a beet to his lips regardless. It tastes good, sharp. The red-purple color feels as if it should stain his teeth. 

Amusement ripples through Hannibal’s features briefly as Will continues eating. After a minute, the room feels colder, like the uncut chord of tension hasn’t stopped pulsating. 

“Is it so wrong for me to want to take care of you?” Hannibal asks, quietly.

Slowly, Will looks up at him, finding only authenticity in his expression. 

“No,” Will tells him, and means it. “Is it so wrong of me to not understand why you want to?” 

“And if I told you why?” 

Will falters, setting the fork down in the bowl. 

“Perhaps I’m not quite ready to hear it.” 

Hannibal nods, the fingers on his left hand flexing as if he desires to reach out. Will turns his body away from him and holds out the bowl. There are several slices of beets left. 

“Would you put them away in the fridge for me? I’ll have more tomorrow.”

Hannibal looks as if he means to press the matter, but he decides against it and retreats to the kitchen. 

Will wanders further into the dark hall which leads down to their bedrooms, and the stairwell upstairs. If only he could grab a bottle of white wine and disappear off to the terrace. 

For the first time, Will analyzes the paintings he finds. 

There is only one he knows. 

Hardly difficult to recognize the bleak, dried out colors of a Francisco Goya painting, but he remembers being enthralled by the painting in an art class in his youth. Visión fantasmal, 1801. 

It is strange, even now, to find that Hannibal shares a similar taste to his own. Most would assume they do not attract to the same forms of art. And perhaps, that is true on some level. But, Will can picture Hannibal designing the interior to this villa, being drawn in a similar manner to this morbid painting, delighting in the shroudless and demonic creature it presents. 

Lost in the brush strokes, Will doesn’t notice Hannibal behind him until he can smell the cologne he wore for dinner. Strong, but masculine. It shouldn’t make him feel supine. 

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Will tells him, not sure if he means the painting or the cologne. Hannibal could always read his mind, or so it seemed. 

He turns to find Hannibal closer than he expected. For a moment, he braces himself to be pushed hard against the wall, possibly crushing the painting with the force of the gesture. Instead, Hannibal tilts his head and finds his neck with a soft hand, cold from the sink. 

Will glances up into his eyes, gaze then trailing down to his lips. He sways forward, eyes slipping shut as he feels Hannibal’s other hand find his waist. 

They kiss, and it is everything their first couldn’t be. 

Will’s lips slide over Hannibal’s, and Hannibal’s tongue brushes the inside of his bottom lip as he kisses back, reciprocates as he hadn’t before. Will’s lips fall open when they come together again, hand flying up to bundle the fabric of his shoulder padding in his hand, gripping it for balance. 

The house is too quiet for the sound that follows their languid kiss breaking.

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal mutters, breath tickling his lips. He sounds far too breathless for one kiss, voice husky with longing. “Does this prove if our last kiss was more for me than for you?”

Will’s blinks round eyes up at Hannibal, swaying forward to continue kissing him, but Hannibal’s fingers tighten around his neck, keeping him static.

“Is this something you want?”

Will nods, desperately. 

It’s so clear to him, now. It is always clear to him, when Hannibal surrounds him, allows him to absorb the warm reactions in his body, of his skin. The inner conflict he’s been battling with for days drifts away when they touch like this. 

When Hannibal deepens the kiss, Will is the one that drags Hannibal forward, crowding himself against the back of the wall. He’s pushed now, gently, against it. 

Hannibal doesn’t slam him up against surfaces, or bite him until he bleeds. He doesn’t tug his hair, or demand that Will fall to his knees. Nothing that Will expected would come of their joining. 

Will finds himself arching into Hannibal’s touch, eyes fluttering open briefly so he can see the pink color in Hannibal’s cheeks, even in the shadows of the unlit corridor. 

Instead of continuing to tug and fondle fabric, he winds his arms around Hannibal’s neck, keeping him locked close. Hannibal doesn’t appear to want to go anywhere, pleased to kiss Will’s lips raw, tenderly and wantonly, like he’s never desired anyone else.

Perhaps he hasn’t, not in the way he desires Will.

Wholly and devotedly. The thought rushes up Will’s spine like a physical victory. 

They break apart, eventually, but it isn’t simple. Will leaves lingering kisses on Hannibal’s lips, tacky with spit and swollen from the pressure of kissing for what feels like hours, but was probably only ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Hannibal can’t seem to take his face away from Will’s, even after the kiss ends; his lips linger on his jawline, cheek nuzzling Will’s. He noses into his curls, and Will feels as if he’ll combust if he allows Hannibal to escape his arms. 

Living together after this is going to be a nightmare. 

“I’d like to go on that retreat,” Will whispers, shocked at the coarseness in his own voice. “I realized I didn’t exactly give you a real answer earlier.” 

“I know,” Hannibal murmurs, hot breath and vibrations across his clavicle. Will huffs out in exasperation. Of course, he’s already booked the resort. 

It is some time, until their hearts and bodies calm down.

Then, there is breathing, and lingering touches slowly waning.

“I knew on the boat,” Hannibal begins apprehensively, so Will pulls back to meet his eyes. Hannibal needs to tell him this, feels obligated to. “When you showed me your scar to remember, the memory didn’t come back to me, but the feelings did. Passion and betrayal. I knew what you meant to me, but I was unable to say it. Admit to it. It was the first and only time I felt fear, during my memory loss.” 

Will is still panting, high-strung from the proximity, but with this confession he finds himself sobering up. He thought he saw something in Hannibal’s eyes that morning, but he never knew what.

“Did you wonder if Molly’s ring was yours and mine?” 

The words come out without plan. Will hadn’t even known this was a question he felt he needed to ask. Hannibal had never mentioned his marriage during his amnesia. 

“Inside, I knew it couldn’t be. You hated to look at me, far too much.” 

“Not hate,” Will whispers, running his hands down Hannibal’s face, just to feel the heat of his blush, to know he’s alive and to acknowledge the miracle of it. “It hurt. Everything hurt.” 

“I disliked seeing you hurt, more than I disliked not having access to my memories.”

“I almost wished you did like it then, seeing me in pain.” Will’s head thumps back against the wall, and Hannibal inches back minutely to give him the needed space. “It would have felt like coming home.” 

“I like to see you pain, in equal measures with how I like to see you feeling pleasure,” Hannibal tells him, and it shocks Will he finds these words soothing. 

“Pleasure is another form of pain,” he teases, feeling down his broad shoulders, the deadly muscles behind the thin stretches of skin. “I’m going to have trouble letting you go.”

Hannibal’s eyes darken, and Will feels nails in his skin. 

“I mean for tonight, not in general,” Will says, humored by Hannibal’s possessive nature. This should be what he fears most, but he finds it is the last thing about Hannibal he is wary of. “I want to keep touching. I don’t like how I feel when we’re not.”

Physically and emotionally beggared, like a lost soul. 

“We don’t have to stop,” Hannibal responds, in an uncharacteristically low voice. It is suggestive, _genuinely_ suggestive, and Will nearly trembles out of his skin as he replays that sentence in his head. 

“I know myself better than that,” Will states, regretting every syllable. “There’s these barriers I can’t cross right now. I need time to compartmentalize my wants and needs. You–” Will laughs, sharp and quick. “ _–overwhelm_ me. I can scarcely think, let alone breathe.” 

“I understand, Will,” Hannibal promises with a smile. 

The heat doesn’t wither, even when they separate. 

Will yearns to pounce on him and kiss him until his knees give out, but with the added distance, he can better control his urges. Hannibal doesn’t look much better, with animal eyes, and pouted, red lips. Will thought that alcohol had been the only reason he’d been so attracted to the prospect of kissing him that night, of dancing the Tango with him. 

Completely and utterly sober, Will understands how false that sentiment is.

“We’ll be leaving for our retreat tomorrow,” Hannibal notes, as if it were an afterthought. Will blinks fast, and he runs over the statement three times in his head before responding.

“Why now?”

“Why not?”

“Touché.” Will blows out air, harshly and indignantly. He likes weeks to prepare for things such as these, but with Hannibal back to his normal, adventurous self, he finds he has no time to brood over the possible outcomes of an excursion. Perhaps that is a good thing.

With one last sigh, he opens his hands in capitulation. 

“Just tell me what I need to pack.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we gonna go hiking next chapter lads yeehaw. hannibal has too much money and will is a horny bastard, but that's just the normal hard facts, see u soon xoxo


	5. Chapter 5

_The manner in which Will ached for his touch, arched into him as if he were everything that he needed to survive. Immaculately adorned in his two-piece suit and turtleneck, yet maculate with intention, probing hands and lips, begging silently for him in the darkened hall._

Hannibal cannot think of another moment more potent in its elegance. 

The sight of Will Graham leaning over the rail of the ferry they’re traveling on comes close, however. Hannibal moves up beside him, like an instinct, and turns his head to inhale the woodsman scent that lies hidden beneath nectarous soaps and stale aftershave.

“I’m already so tired,” Will murmurs. They’ve been traveling since the morning, and now they are rolling into late afternoon. 

He sways closer to Hannibal. 

Whereas in the past Will tolerated each touch as if it were enforced, now he appears to want for it. His whole body moves with his intentions, eyes blank with a fulfilled man’s contentment. 

“You can take a nap when we get to the resort,” Hannibal tells him, curling a strand of hair behind his ear with two fingers. Will smiles faintly, eyes half-lidded as he continues to stare out over the clear blue water; the ferry cuts through waves as they sail. 

When the ferry reaches the island of Santo Antão, they will only need to drive a couple hours by car to reach their destination. Hannibal had rented a small hut just off the coast, modern but quaint. The perfect resting spot before hiking the mountains of Ribeira Grande. 

Will takes a nap in the rental car. 

At a stoplight, Hannibal reaches in the back of the seat to dig through one of their bags and covers Will’s body with the first blanket he can find. 

Will curls up into a tighter ball under the warmth, and his head smacks against the car door window in his slumber. Hannibal can’t help but be abnormally endeared. 

It doesn’t take long to drive to the opposite end of the island. They pass through the neighborhood of Mão para Trás which involves quite a few steep hills. The resort they’re staying in will be farther to the top, far past the local subsects, where civilians of the island hang their hats. 

Will wakes up to a few bumps in the road, hand shooting out to grab Hannibal’s arm as they continue to traverse the terrain. 

“Nearly there,” Hannibal assures. 

Will’s jaw drops when they arrive at their shelter for the weekend. 

The resort is one of the highest above the island, in price and in location, perched atop of a cliffside. Several rental houses are scattered across the property, all identical white-walled buildings that are more huts than they are cabins. The rust colored roofs fit over the top of the monuments like a cap or hard-hat, and as Hannibal leads Will across the gravel sidewalk, Will stops looking surprised at the grandiosity.

They drop their bags in front of the very last hut, the closest to the water.

“This is ours,” Hannibal tells him, making sure Will takes the time to look over the manmade bluff. Out their window, they should be able to view the sea, and only the sea. It had been entirely intentional when he reserved it. 

Will fumbles with the keypad on the front door, typing in the wrong code at first. He retrieves the key from the lockbox after the second try, and they head inside. 

It is similar to a doll’s house, inside. There are five windows, all equally distanced from one another. The only closed out area is the bathroom, very miniscule with only a shower and toilet. The only sink is in the section with the oven and fridge. Hannibal would prefer bigger and better, as always, but he knows Will finds comfort in these tight-knit quarters. 

Will barely slips his shoes off before he’s collapsing on the queen sized bed. There is a couch inside with a pull-out bed, but Hannibal doubts Will is going to attempt to make him use it. 

“To your liking?” Hannibal asks with humor as Will wiggles into a more comfortable position, making himself at home. He’s lying on his stomach now, cheek resting on his folded arms. The pillows sink beneath his weight. 

Seeing him stretched out, in hiking shorts and a white t-shirt, makes the animal part of Hannibal’s brain want to pin him down and scent every crook and crevice of his body. He shakes off the feeling, knowing he’ll get nowhere with such carnal thoughts. 

Dazedly, Will watches him unpack their things. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, and Hannibal ignores him to rummage through the kitchen supplies. There is a sparse collection, but he will make do. After three years in confinement, he’d rejoice just to see plastic measuring cups. 

There is a gruff sound from the bed and Hannibal turns. 

“Hey you,” Will tries again. “Get over here.” 

Hannibal glances at the clock. There are a few hours till the evening. 

If he wants to make a plentiful dinner, he should start soon.

“I’m not tired, Will,” Hannibal tells him, with a smile. “You may sleep some more if you need the rest. I shall attempt to scrounge up a dinner for us.”

“Or,” Will rolls over onto his back, staring directly at Hannibal. “You could come sleep beside me.” 

_Oh._

Hannibal’s lips part, and he finds that while he is not tired, he is very much enthralled by any intimate invitation from Will’s lips. 

They haven’t kissed since last night, and Hannibal decides he could live off of that memory. But, if Will intends to continue offering such things, he’s sure another similar moment won’t be too far off. 

Hannibal removes his shoes by the door, and tries not to feel uncomfortable as he lays down with trousers and a button-up on, confining him. He doesn’t want to startle Will by disrobing.

After Will makes room, he props himself up on an elbow to stare down at him. He looks far too enthused at the prospect of luring Hannibal into bed. 

Will glances between them, then inches closer timidly. 

Hannibal makes it easier on him, laying flat on his back as he’s been doing often for the ever-healing bullet wound in his gut. Will ducks his head, curling under Hannibal’s arm, and snuggles close to his side. The sigh that follows is heavenly; Will releasing his tension and uncertainty is always pleasant to the ear.

With both arms around Will, Hannibal lets his limbs go loose, and he drifts off into sleep. While he hadn’t been tired, he’s always easily been able to sleep when he must, and wake when he must. The warm, heavy weight of Will against his side is enough to lull anyone. 

When he wakes, Will is asleep, cheek atop his sternum. Will’s fingers are loose over his belly, and it’s not difficult to maneuver him to the side.

Will goes, limbs a little lost, misplaced when he escapes them.

Hannibal sighs when he sees he only has a half hour to prepare a dinner. 

Inadvertently, he wakes Will up with the rattling in the kitchen. 

“Apologies,” he says as Will rouses. His hair is mussed, skin tacky with sleep. Fingers flex over the covers as if annoyed by the loss of Hannibal’s body heat. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” 

Will nods, running a hand through his hair. 

“Should I help?” 

“Some utensils for the table should suffice. Perhaps a candle.” 

Will snorts. “We have a candle?” After digging through Hannibal’s bag for a few minutes, he huffs out in amusement. He lifts up the black candle from it’s foam confines (necessary for travel) and reads the label. “Black Cherry Merlot. Is this a way of mocking my dry spell?” 

Hannibal smirks. “I bought that last month, actually.” 

“Well, then.” 

Will sets up the table as briskly and sufficiently as he can manage. After another few minutes, the chili is done boiling, and he scoops some out into two separate round bowls. 

He places one in front of Will, and one on his own placemat.

“Bean and chorizo chili,” he explains. “There wasn’t much I could do with the supplies we brought.” 

“I told you on the way that I wouldn’t mind if we stopped at a grocers,” Will mentions, taking a bite of his portion too soon. It must burn, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “This is fine, though.” 

“I was too eager to come here,” Hannibal admits. 

“I never thought you’d enjoy hiking.” 

“Nature appeals to me more than you would imagine.” Hannibal blows on a spoonful of his chili and brings it to his lips with an identical heed. “Even the grotesque aspects of nature harbor inherent beauty.” 

“And you delight in beautiful things,” Will says, as if reading from his official profile. 

Hannibal rolls his head to one side as he observes Will. 

“Why do you think I find you so irresistible?”

Will struggles to swallow the spoonful of chili he’d just taken into his mouth. He looks up in a flurry of irritation and crackling embarrassment.

Hannibal smiles as Will attempts to formulate a scathing remark. 

“I assumed it was the _brain_ you’ve spent so many years rambling on about, and not my _dashing_ good looks,” he grumbles. “Sorry for the confusion.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I believed you were externally beautifully, before I realized that internally, you were just as such?” 

Will gawks. 

“No.” 

Hannibal grins, blowing on another spoonful of chili. He is reminded of the time he brought soup to the hospital for Will. They shared many glorious meals in Baltimore. 

“I’m not offended that you never felt that way,” Hannibal tells him, smirking when he gets the reaction he expected. Will sputtering, setting his spoon down to process the veiled accusation. 

“Who says I didn’t?”

“Will, come now.”

“That’s not fair, Hannibal.” Will averts his gaze and presses his lips together in a thin line. “I don’t flirt with men, I don’t look at men like that. It wouldn’t have crossed my mind.” 

“I’m well aware,” Hannibal replies only to see the irritation unfurl into shuddering rage behind his eyes. There are ways to tame it, as he’s come to realize. “It did not stop me from wondering, I’m afraid. Alana used to tell me you would flirt with her to change subjects. I considered goading you into changing subjects quite often, but the outcome was never precisely what I predicted.” 

Will pauses for a moment, reminiscing. 

“Eventually…I did flirt with you,” he reminds. “Towards the end of your time in Baltimore.” 

Hannibal is hit with a blistering wave of memories, ones he doesn't care to dredge up very often. Will always forces him to look, whether it is intentional or not. 

“I do not have the privilege of knowing when you were lying and when you were not.” 

“I didn’t expect it,” Will begins slowly, eyes glazing over. “I couldn’t have expected feeling like I did, giving into temptation like that. It was more real than you know, Hannibal.”

“There are some days I imagine what may have happened if you ran away with me that one night, fed your dogs, left a note for Jack.”

“I don’t,” Will states. “I did, for a long while I did. Cut deeper and deeper into that vein. Then I couldn’t. It was like I’d finally hit bone.” 

They eat their chili for a while, in a relatively chilled silence. 

Then, Will lets out a quiet, frustrated sigh. 

“For those few moments, before you woke up at the bluff house. After we survived, I was so relieved. The hope I had for the future, Hannibal. I’d never felt that way before.” 

“And then I opened my eyes.” 

Will sucks in a sharp breath. Hannibal can just about taste the chemical smell of merlot from the candle between them, flame dancing high and mighty on its wick. 

“I want to be here,” Will tells him, meeting his eyes. “I want to be with you. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time, I don’t want you to think otherwise.” 

“I will not dwell on the past, if you don’t.” 

“We don’t have to dwell,” Will murmurs, corralling several beans onto his spoon. “But, I do want to know how you survived the food in the hospital. I barely could.”

Hannibal laughs, biting his bottom lip. 

The food had been atrocious; of this, they can agree.

“I considered starving myself until they delivered finer sustenance.”

“I think Jack would have preferred you starving yourself. Alana certainly would have,” Will says, and Hannibal hadn’t noticed until now how quickly he scarfed down his meal. He’s finished, putting aside his utensils and pouring another glass of water for himself. 

“That was my hypothesis, as well.” 

“I was disappointed when you didn’t gain your memories back right away.” Will clears his throat, takes a sip. “A lot of that was because I was excited to see you get back to the kitchen, to enjoy it the way you used to.” 

“I did enjoy it, regardless.”

“You did.” Will sighs, fingers tapping over the tabletop. Hannibal can see that he’s restless. “You enjoyed dancing with me, drawing me. You, uh, you enjoyed killing with me.” 

Hannibal stills, looking up to find Will’s expression gauging. 

“Shall we head out?” Will blinks when he changes subject. “Before it gets to be too dark.”

Hannibal watches him toy with his napkin before responding, with ire. 

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Will had been the first to bring up the murder. Hannibal will not forget this fact, and he keeps the memory close. Tucked away in the back of his skull as they ascend the hiking trail which leads from the resort to the mountains. Will is already out of breath when they reach the first pass. 

“We’re not going to get lost are we?” he asks, glancing back at the trail they left behind. They’ve gone high enough up that the fog shrouds the resort, and it appears they only have the snug company of the forest left for guidance. 

“Not as long as we keep to the hiking trail,” Hannibal tells him, positioning the supply bag on his back. It has grown heavier the farther up they go. He’s sure Will is feeling the same effect with his own. 

They’ve brought tents, blankets. Food, water, just in case. 

Hannibal doesn’t plan to go further than the third highest peak; it is not far from their residence, and is not as steep as the two other slopes. He does not desire to go to such high altitudes. Nor does he desire Will to tire out. 

The sky is darkening, faster than Hannibal anticipated. 

They may have to consider digging out a flashlight for the thicker brushes they wind their way under. Moonlight does not reach every hidden nook in these sweltering woods. 

“Hannibal, look at this,” Will calls out.

Hannibal turns to find him several yards away, over by a clearing. When he approaches, he can tell that they are on another cliffside. Stepping up beside him, he notes there is a large lake underneath them. If the gravel and rock beneath their feet crumbled, they’d be rushing to another deadly fall. 

“Do you think there’s fish down there?” Will asks, staring guilelessly into the glowing water below. The light remaining in the sky is making it appear purple, sparkling. 

“I would assume so. But, you are the angling expert.”

“I wonder if there would be a line long enough to cast from here,” he muses. Hannibal will buy him one, if he wishes. It would give a new name to fly fishing. 

Will appears to need a moment’s rest, so Hannibal sets down their backpacks and sidles closer to him, winding arms around Will’s middle. He barely tenses, hands fluttering to grip Hannibal’s wrists, holding him there, not prying him off. 

“Is this alright?” he mumbles into his neck, and Will shudders with a nod. Hannibal kisses up his neck, below his ear, on his cheek. “And this?”

Will turns in his arms, allowing Hannibal’s lips to drag over his face, kiss the side of his lips. Will nods his head up, like he’s asking silently for a genuine kiss. Hannibal adores the way he cannot find words when it comes to physical affection. 

Hannibal leans in and captures Will’s mouth in his own. 

Will’s lips part delicately, and his fingers stroke up Hannibal’s arms until he’s gripping at his shoulders, his favorite perch. Hannibal likes his arms around Will’s waist, feeling his lungs move beneath his ribcage, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat. 

There is an urgency that wasn’t present last time.

Will paws at his shoulders, one hand slowly finding Hannibal’s face and angling him so that Will can deepen the kiss, slip a tongue between Hannibal’s teeth and taste the dinner they shared.

Hannibal rumbles his approval, pulling Will tighter to him, so that every part of their bodies are touching. Even after they slayed the Dragon, they had not fully pressed up against one another, felt every gyration, every breath, all their parts entwining as if they were one. 

When Will lets out a gentle noise, close to a moan, Hannibal finds he can’t keep his hands to himself, fingers slipping just under the hem of his shirt. Will gasps, hot breath on Hannibal’s lips. 

There is a taste in Will’s mouth Hannibal doesn’t recognize. 

He drags a hand up Will’s back, feeling him shiver with the movement, until he’s cradling his skull in one hand and pulling him forward for another kiss. His tongue delves into Will’s mouth, ignoring the tiny whimpering noise that arises. After a swipe of lips, tonguing the back of Will’s teeth, he drags the specific taste to the surface. 

_Alcohol._

When he pulls back, Will lets out a shuddering breath. 

Will’s cheeks are red, and his limbs are like putty. Hannibal is holding most of his weight in his grasp. He’s quite sure their pupils are both as dark as the encroaching nightfall. 

With an escalating awareness of mistrust, Hannibal asks challengingly, “Would you kill with me again, Will?” 

Hannibal can clearly see the whites of his eyes when they widen. Will turns, slowly as if coming back to himself, and he looks down at the lake below, the cliff they are standing on. He looks at Hannibal, at his broad arms which are ensnaring him like a snake. The dark, sullen eyes that are trained on him, and Will’s loose expression tightens, contorts. 

“Is that all this is to you?” 

Though they are sweating, and panting, a cold wind rushes past them.

From above, thunder cracks, booming loud and strident.

The rain starts as droplets, picking up in intensity within seconds until the gravel beneath their shoes is wet, and they are drenched head to toe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the resort i had in mind if u wanted to see it: https://www.airbnb.co.uk/rooms/11545475?source_impression_id=p3_1610500975_v1yrxU3TDVhZpPGu&guests=1&adults=1
> 
> really, i was only thinking of the exterior. i made the interior my own in my head. also sorry for that ominous ending, i swear it's not too much angst left they're just will and hannibal so they're like grr you know them. angst and sex next chapter tho so u can hate AND thank me <3 toodaloo


	6. Chapter 6

“We passed a cave a quarter of a mile back,” Hannibal tells him in a raised voice. The rain is pattering down against the stone with shrieking velocity. “We can wait for the storm to subside there.”

Will doesn’t have the ability to question this decision. He barely has time to slide his backpack on again before Hannibal's hand is bruising around his wrist, pulling him so firmly he fears the bone will pop from its socket.

“ _ Hannibal, _ ” Will tries, but lands no response. There is nothing to do except try to keep pace, or else his arm will ache brutally from the strength of Hannibal’s hauling. 

His vision is blurred. Water splashes down from the trees above in chunks, vapid sprays pour straight from the sky in clearer areas. It doesn’t take long to rediscover the trail and wind their way back through the coppice until they are back on the ledge of the mountain, closer to the stonier milieu, where bramble only grows in cracks and crevices. 

Hannibal stops, for a single moment, head raised high as if scouting with his senses where the cave might be. Will wonders if he was filing this trail away in his memory palace, as they climbed, so he would know where to lead them in case of an emergency. 

Will is yanked again, grunting when Hannibal doesn’t warn him. 

It is his bad arm he’s pulling on, but perhaps Hannibal doesn’t realize that. 

The entrance of the cave is appropriately discreet, half covered by frail, thin vines. Hannibal pushes them aside and tugs him into the cave, nearly a shove. Will stumbles inside, bending over so he doesn’t hit his head on the low ceiling. Hannibal pulls at the vines, as close to a door as they’re getting, and as simple as that, they’ve escaped the rainfall. 

“We couldn’t bite the bullet and go the whole way back?” Will asks, rubbing at his sore arm. He’s trying not to be bitter, trying not to think about the note their conversation dropped off on by the cliffside. “What’s a little rain?” 

“Knowing the weather patterns of Cape Verde, the storm shouldn’t last longer than a half hour,” Hannibal discloses, cut and dry. He isn’t bothering to look at him. 

Hannibal’s sudden glacial temper grates on Will’s nerves. 

Will runs a hand over his face, brushing his hair back and out of his eyes. He counts to ten in his head, setting his bag down. There is no point in fostering the building animosity, so he keeps himself busy by cataloguing their surroundings. 

He’s never been in a cave. This space is cramped, unlike the caves with seemingly endless corridors he’s seen in horror films and nature documentaries. Not much room to move about, but enough to lay down and stretch out. At least there’s that. 

There is a stock pile of wood and stones in a damp cavity of the cave, water dripping down from a hole in the ceiling to wet the space around it. The items are so selectively abnormal in this space, other hikers must have gathered them to make a fire. 

Will begins setting them out, creating a fairly sized circle of rocks in the back of their space. He places the remaining fragments of wood and sticks in the center and digs through the bag to find a lighter and a box of granola bars. He removes the bars to put the box atop the bundle of sticks. 

He lights a flame, and attempts to catch the box. 

It works after several tries, the fire slowly subsuming the box and sticks. It won’t last forever, but it will last longer than thirty minutes, in the very least. 

He turns to find Hannibal has laid out the folded tent, flat to the floor. One on top of the other, he airs out the blankets, settling them flat across the tent. 

A soft space to sit on, rather than rock solid floor.

But, he doesn’t offer for Will to join him. 

Will uses a stick to poke at the fire, turning back to look at Hannibal every so often. The man sits in the center of the black and red blankets, staring out through the sparse spaces in the vine. 

Will hasn’t forgotten his question that went unanswered, and he has half a mind to ask it again, but all that comes out is Hannibal’s name, soft-spoken, before he’s interrupted. 

“Hannibal – ”

“What is truthful about a lie, Will?” he asks, staring blankly out at the rain. His voice is almost muffled by the storm. “One might say there is undeniable truth behind a lie, and perhaps they mean that lies all accomplish one thing. The nurturing of dishonesty. One lie leads to another lie, and then another. Until you find that you're lying to yourself.”

Hannibal turns and Will flinches at his malignant expression.

“That is why I make a point of respecting the conventions of honesty, at the very least, with you,” he adds, tone dripping with venom. 

“Have I been dishonest?” Will inquires, keeping his anger at bay. 

“Often,” Hannibal remarks, glaring at the fire. The flames dance in his eyes, making him look esoteric. “I’m beginning to believe you enjoy making a fool of me.”

Will is baffled.

He has no clue what Hannibal is talking about.

“I can’t very well explain myself if you’re going to speak in riddles.”

“I could taste it, Will. Surely, you know.” 

Will searches his mind, the memory of the kiss. He licks his lips, not understanding. Not until he runs through the memory of leaving the rental hut, instead. 

While Hannibal had been outside, tying his running shoes, Will had found the mini-bar inside. He hadn’t considered the consequences when he snatched one of the small vodka bottles and drank it like a shot. The idea had been too appealing at the time to consider at length. 

“Hannibal, I’m not lying to you,” he begins, exasperated. “I found the mini-bar before we left, I just had a shot of vodka.”

For only a moment, Hannibal appears fazed. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

“And here I thought I  _ didn’t  _ need to check in with you,” Will shoots back, rubbing his hands together. The rain beating down from the sky isn’t warm despite their being in the tropics, nor is the fire extravagant. He’s damp, hair sticking to his forehead and drying straggled from the breeze wafting in. 

Hannibal is beginning to look mad, in the subtle and unreadable manner rage normally materializes in his features. Alert eyes, rigid spine, callously pursed lips. Will shouldn’t have bitten back with an arrant remark directly after explaining himself, but he finds he’s lost his patience for Hannibal’s ups and downs. He has no right to be mad, especially after they’d come to an understanding about Will making his own decisions. He hadn’t even approved Hannibal hiding away the alcohol at home. As if he has the right to call Will a liar after what he’s done.

“You think you can control me, just because you have me,” Will grinds out, and Hannibal’s eyes narrow. “And what of you? You dole out physical affection like it’s a reward, like it’s conditioning.” 

Hannibal turns to face him entirely, making hard eye contact. 

Will’s teeth threaten to chatter with contempt. He holds himself together, even as he continues, “You think I’m making a fool out of you? If that’s the case, you’re making me the bigger fool. I know you better than to believe every touch you’ve given me these past few days hasn’t been involved in some ulterior motive. I’ve seen the way you speak to my dogs, and it’s strikingly similar to the way you handle me now.” 

“You deflect blame because you understand there is blame to place,” Hannibal tells him coolly, hands flat on the blankets. He looks ready to pounce.

“We’re playing  _ this  _ game are we, Doctor?” Will asks, turning his back to the fire. It blocks the light, casting Hannibal in shadows. He doesn’t look any less explosive in the dark.

“Okay,” Will starts, adrenaline bubbling to the surface. “Explain to me why this sentiment you’ve been projecting hasn’t been just another part of your mind games. Prove to me that you haven’t found yet another way to trick me into becoming something more than you’ve already made me. Why would you ever stop wanting me to change?”

“Is your self image so poor that you’ve constructed fabrications about my sincerity? There are means of influence other than intimacy,” Hannibal reminds him, tone consistently even. 

Will finds the more even his voice, the more volatile he is. 

He nearly barks out a laugh at the words echoed from Chiyoh’s mouth.

“Meaning violence,” Will surmises. “But, you’ve given me the violence. Every morsel, every shred, every twisted sentiment on the subject of violence. You’ve bloodied my hands, instilled violence into places in my mind I feared it would fit. Everything you’ve done to me has been violent. It is all I understand when it comes to you, so if there is nothing left to learn, why not teach the dog a new trick?” 

Will’s voice is rising, nearly convulsive. 

“Does it comfort you to refer to yourself as my hound?” Hannibal asks, uncivil as Will’s ever seen him. “Does it separate you from what you feel for me? What we feel for each other?” 

“How do I know what you feel for me isn’t obsession, isn’t some warped, unstable version of that  _ thing  _ you think you feel?” Hannibal opens his mouth to respond, but Will is incapable of stopping the accusations falling from his lips. 

“When you lost your memories, you didn’t care for me poisoning my body. You didn’t look at me, Hannibal. You looked behind me, like I was a wall of glass, like I was an extension of the institution you’d been holed away in. Y – You pitied me when I kissed you, I could feel it, Hannibal. I always feel it, I felt it in every look,” Will scratches at his own shirt, over his heart. “We are the same, but how do I know that version of you isn't the ‘you’ underneath all the horror, that you don’t truly see me as you’ve tried to convince me you do?” 

Will thinks about how Hannibal regaining his memories had nothing to do with Will. Will had merely been at the dinner table, watching him cure himself, as if he’s never needed an equal.

“Will you hold against me the transgressions I’ve committed unwittingly?” Hannibal asks, bordering on uncomfortably cold. 

“I hated you for it,” Will admits, through gritted teeth. “I find that feeling lingers.” 

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Hannibal stalks forward like a storm cloud, moving halfway on his hands. He stops when the light from the fire colors his face again and he’s close enough to touch. 

“Will it be my fault if you lapse into an alcohol habit again?” Hannibal questions, head tilting and expression glowering. “You want my unbridled attention, but when I give it to you, you accuse me of deceit. I wondered why you were so distraught those months, but I see now it is because I was not technically there to blame your failings on. No one to accuse of manipulation, or of treachery.” 

Will snarls. “Look where trust has led us in the past. Is it any wonder I didn’t tell you about the drink I had? You act like manipulation isn’t second nature to you.” 

Hannibal moves forward again, damp bangs falling over his eyes. Will becomes self-aware of how hard he’s breathing, every nerve tingling with fury. It begs to be released. 

“Is that why you felt the need to strike me, Will? Hold me under the water and watch me thrash, because you wanted to blame the murder on someone other than yourself? When I didn’t rise to the surface, you felt the need to throw me under one, enraged over the fact it was you, and you alone, who had planned the death of another.” 

“I know who I am!” Will gets close to him, eye to eye, breathing in each other’s space. “I don’t need you to tell me who I am, what I’m capable of.”

Hannibal doesn’t know, can’t know, how desperately Will had to love him to hurt him like that. 

Will gasps, lurching back from the force of understanding. 

Hannibal does know. Will swallows his horror, realizing Hannibal has  _ always  _ known how dear you must love a person, to hurt them so deeply, that all they have left is to change. 

A faint, callous smile curls Hannibal’s lips. 

“You’re a killer.”

The color red, the pounding of rain like mounting beats of a drum.

Will swings a fist, knocking Hannibal down with the force of the punch. Hannibal’s eyes dart up to his from the cave floor, and lightening cracks furiously. The dark space is briefly lit with violent light, and thunder follows with a sickly crack as Will sends another blow flying.

It doesn’t land. Hannibal grabs his wrist as it’s moving in the air and tugs him forward, knowing full well it is his bad arm this time. Will topples over, painfully, on his side. He scrambles, but Hannibal is already pinning him, covering his body with his weight.

A hand closes around Will’s throat, tight as a vice.

The look in Hannibal’s eyes is equally deadly as it is mortifyingly spirited. 

Will chokes, thrashes, scratching at his hand for a brief moment before gaining the upper hand, driving a knee up into Hannibal’s bullet wound.  _ We are the same.  _ The animal sound that is ripped from Hannibal’s throat is breathy and uneven. The older man collapses on his back, arms floundering for purchase, on Will, or something else. 

When Will straddles him, he means to throw another punch, expression brutal and courageous, half mad, but Hannibal surges up like a beast and latches sharp teeth into the crook of his neck. He breaks skin and Will howls, tugging at his hair in retaliation, ripping strands from the scalp. 

Thunder cracks again when Hannibal attempts to pull away.

Something shifts, and Will halts his tugging, pushing his head closer to his neck instead. 

Hannibal’s arms wind around his back, like a serpent. Will rips his head back by his hair, watching the way Hannibal’s neck cranes. Heat pulses between them, hotter than anger. They stare into the pits of one another’s eyes, before Will surges forward, thrusting his mouth against his. 

Will can feel himself bleeding, punctured holes in his neck, but the sensation pales in comparison to the boiling blood running through his veins, adrenaline morphing into arousal. Blood pumping south, with each sensual pirouette of their hips. 

Hannibal bites at his lips and Will nods, whining in encouragement. 

Words are lost, replaced by inhuman sounds. 

There is no way to tell how long they kiss, sucking on each other’s tongues, nipping at plump, swollen lips. Will moaning into Hannibal’s mouth, Hannibal letting loose a gruff noise everytime Will grinds his entire body against him, like a plea. 

At one point, it stops being enough. 

Will shoves Hannibal to the ground, and rips his shirt open. Buttons go flying, fabric tears, and Hannibal works deftly at Will’s buckle, tearing it from its loops. 

There is chest hair, grey and silver. Will runs his fingers through it as if it were meant for him. 

It is raining too hard to hear the panting breaths and the sound of skin touching skin, cool to the touch from their wet clothes, but Will can hear when his zipper goes, and his eyes shudder closed for a moment when Hannibal curls a fist around his cock and draws him out of his boxers, stroking once, but expertly enough that he thickens completely. 

Those long, tactile fingers feel just as good as he’d always imagined. 

Will tears Hannibal’s pants all the way off his legs, dragging his briefs with them. He climbs back on top of him and surges down into a passionate, biting kiss. 

Will has never been intimate with a man; It is the farthest truth from his mind in this instant, but he’d no readiness when it came to expecting what two cocks against one another would feel like. Two powerful, heady forces of nature, nudging and seeking pleasure. 

Their cocks line up and slide together, tips bumping. Will groans libidinously, not bothering to muffle the noise. Hannibal holds him close with one hand on the back of his head, the other curving down his waist, rocking him back and forth with his own thrusting motions. 

The blankets don’t allow for much comfort; the cave floor feels gravelly and hard even with the sleek cushion. Will is going to be covered in bruises tomorrow, on his neck, his back, everywhere. As long as Hannibal is mottled, decorated as much as he, he welcomes his fate. 

For a few blinding minutes, they are flesh and blood. 

Seeking and mindless, touching everywhere, as much as physics allow. Hannibal holds him close, as if he is a treasure. Will can feel the love in his fingertips, melting into him like honey melts into tea. Trying to give it back, match the same sensation, he sucks harshly on the spot behind Hannibal’s ear that makes him arch and grip tighter. 

Will begins to feel animal again, thrusting hard against Hannibal, so hard it must hurt the man. He’s hurting himself, but Hannibal isn’t stopping him, grunting and making soft, wanton noises in his ear. 

Their moans are rising in pitch, along with the storm’s turbulence. 

At one point, Will rakes his nails down Hannibal’s flanks, leaving angry red marks. Hannibal bites the other side of his neck, staining his skin further with blood. Will shouts, unsure if it is from the pain or the pleasure. 

The fire, so near to them, feels as if it is searing Will’s bare back. 

_ We will both be branded, by flame.  _

Without warning, Hannibal uses mustered leverage and flips them, making sure Will’s head doesn’t hit the rock beneath with a hand cradling his skull. After so much violence, it is starkly endearing to be doted on.

However, there is no time for innocent, feathery thoughts. 

Will feels meager in size, while he’s wrapped in his arms. Hannibal touches him all over, with flat, probing hands. Keeping his face close to Will’s body, he swiftly makes his way down his sternum. Sloppy kisses are placed upon his belly, harsh sucking lips leaving bruises as he goes. Will arches up into each and every one, moaning savagely. 

Hannibal’s hands are on his waist and then he’s holding him down, sucking his cock into his mouth. Will bends off the floor, hands scraping over Hannibal’s scalp as he goes down on him. In seconds, he hits the back of Hannibal’s throat, and it doesn’t stop. 

He continues to hit it as Hannibal pulls off and drops down. 

Lightening cracks through the sky, the brilliant light flashing over their bodies making Hannibal’s hair appear mythically silver, surreal in all this madness. 

Will should be shouting expletives, begging for more, or begging for less. Instead, his mouth is agape, eyes wide with the shock of coming undone. 

Calloused hands fondle his balls and he whimpers, feeling them tighten. Veins bulge in his cock as Hannibal drags his tongue along the shaft, following his body’s reactions like he’s attuned to them. When he feels he is about to burst, Hannibal lets his cock slip from his mouth. 

Will flops, huffing out from the loss of a crescendo. 

Hannibal is over him before Will can scream and move to  _ take, _ and he’s gathering both their cocks in one spit-slick hand, stroking them together. 

Thunder cracks, belated after the flash of light. 

Will groans, and Hannibal echoes the noise in his hair, a lower, richer sound. He jerks them fast, patience lost to the storm. Will grapples his shoulders, Hannibal bites at the lobe of an ear. Their breathing rises in pitch, Will's noises peaking in volume, Hannibal losing his composure. 

Will comes first, shaking apart and silent with the shock of his orgasm. It rushes through him, head to toe, unlike anything he’s felt before. The sight of him falling apart sets Hannibal’s in motion, and their release is mixing together as he strokes them through it, continuing even when the overwhelming pleasure becomes a series of blistering aftershocks. 

It could be hours they lie there on the stained blankets. 

Hannibal’s forehead is pressed to Will’s.

They breathe the same air, their heartbeats slow in unison. Will hands have slid up from his shoulders to clasp his cheeks, keeping his face close. Their skin sticks together, dicks softening and growing cold as the come dries on their bellies and groins. 

Eventually, as is nature, something must progress. 

One of Hannibal’s hands finds Will’s waist, and he presses lightly to separate them. Will whines, shakes his head, and digs his fingers into the side of his face. 

“Allow me to move the blankets closer to the fire,” Hannibal murmurs, voice soft as velvet. “Please, Will.”

Will rasps in a pleading whisper, throat sore from the exertion, “I don’t want this to slip away.” 

_ Love. _

“It won’t.”

Falteringly, Will pries his hands away, and Hannibal stands, helping him to his feet. His legs feel like jelly, but he still manages to aid Hannibal in moving the blankets closer to the dwindling fire. Just like that, Hannibal settles himself back down, stretching an arm out for Will to join him. 

When they grasp each other in a naked embrace, Will acknowledges that the feeling hasn’t slipped through his fingers, or diminished. 

“You love me.”

It isn’t a question. It is an epiphany. 

“What took you so long?” Hannibal asks, stroking through Will’s damp hair. His eyes are closed, chest heaving very slowly. 

“Bedelia told me once,” Will tells him. “I never thought you could.”

“Love?” 

“Love,” Will agrees, frowning. “Love  _ me. _ ” 

“Does it change your perception of me? Knowing that I love you.” 

Hannibal appears sated, but Will can read the insecurity between the lines. 

“How can it? I can’t love you and condemn you for loving me back.”

Hannibal’s eyes open and he meets Will’s with devotion. Will shies, pressing his forehead against his shoulder. He feels Hannibal’s fingers trail down from his head to move along his spine, the faintest of touches. 

“The rain may go on longer than an hour,” he murmurs eventually, and Will finds he’s already half-asleep. His question is gentle, exhausted. 

“Is your back alright?”

“Yes.”

“We can leave in the morning, then.”

Hannibal’s hand pauses on his back and then splays flat, keeping Will close as they both succumb to slumber. The rain beats on outside, softer now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i promise the angst is over. will just needed to be convinced that hannibal genuinely loves him, what is better than awful revelations and cave sex? nothing babeyy, xoxo. see you for next round!


	7. Chapter 7

Memories of ecstasy and a spectral joining flash through Hannibal’s mind as he sleeps. The beauty of Will’s face, coming undone. The pleasure running through him like a welcome poison. 

When he stirs, it isn’t because he distantly recognizes the flaccid cock of the man he loves pressing up against his thigh. It isn’t even because he wants to wake; he wants to stay in this dream, this recollection of love more impactful than a tsunami. But, Will is speaking to him.

“Hannibal.” Will rubs his chest urgently. “Wake up,  _ please. _ ”

Hannibal’s eyes flutter open. The first sight he takes in is Will’s gorgeous face, cast over with sun beams. The cave entrance is no longer blocked by a dark storm, but wakeful morning rays. However, there is something akin to fear lingering in Will’s eyes that makes him sit up.

Will hisses softly, keeping him down with flat hands.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, nodding over at the fire.

The embers have burned out, most likely hours ago, but this isn’t what Will is signaling for him to look at. Beside the fire, their satchels lay, along with two scampering monkeys digging through them as if it were their own property. 

They are small creatures, with salt and pepper pelts, and black faces and eyes. The noises they make are gentle and crooning. Hannibal sighs in relief, upon realizing what breed they are. 

“Will, it is alright. These are Vervet Monkeys.” 

Will sits up a little, glaring at the monkeys who are fooling around with the wrapper on a granola bar. “Not dangerous?” 

“Scarcely,” Hannibal responds, chuffed. There is a low risk to the danger these animals present, but they are wild animals nonetheless. “I wouldn’t move too quickly to frighten them.”

One of the two walks over on its fists and places its tiny hands on Will’s thigh. Will makes a soft noise of gratitude, sticking out his pinky finger. The monkey curls its own fingers around it and startles Will when he uses the leverage to climb up onto his back and then his shoulders.

“Whoa there buddy,” Will murmurs, still wary. But, he doesn’t move to shoo the monkey away. “What are you doing?” 

“I believe he is checking to see if you have any bugs in your hair,” Hannibal states, amused when the monkey begins fussily tugging at the messy curls. Will winces as it works. 

“Not satisfied with the granola bars?” he grinds out as it tugs, particularly harsh. “Hannibal, can’t you do something here?”

Hannibal enjoys the helpless display in front of him for a few moments longer before he moves up on his knees. His back aches and protests, bullet wound throbbing with phantom pains, but he forces himself closer. When the monkey sees he is making a move to remove it, it squawks loudly and darts out the cave entrance, faster than he can register. The other monkey follows, as if it had made an announcement for retreat.

Will rubs at his hair, mussing it up even more.

“I guess we do look like big apes right now,” Will murmurs, eyeing Hannibal head to toe. If Hannibal were a different man, he may have felt the need to cover up, but he is rather pleased Will is willing to absorb the sight of him after the compulsive decision they both made last night.

He hadn’t entirely crossed out the possibility that Will would wake up regretting what transpired between them.

Will’s eyes glance over Hannibal’s flaccid cock and he blushes, turning to search for their clothes. “Christ, they’re all torn up.”

“I believe that was mostly your doing,” Hannibal reminds, and watches Will go hot with embarrassment, cheeks darkening to a rusty hue. He’s bristling with the inability to pretend the passion they shared last night was anything other than what it was. 

“Let’s gather our things and dress as best we can. The walk down the mountain shouldn’t take long. We haven’t come far,” Hannibal contends, finding his briefs in a pile with his pants, in a completely different corner of the cave. Will watches him slide them on, only turning away when he’s buttoned up. 

Their shirts are both ripped and torn. Will is bruised all over, and Hannibal is walking with a limp. If he were younger, he may have been able to handle brutal, carnal sex in a cave, but as it stands, he’s not faring significantly well. If anyone were to happen upon them, their appearance could easily be explained by a wild animal attack. 

It wouldn’t be an outright lie. They  _ did  _ encounter wild animals.

Back at the hut, Will is sweating. Hannibal is panting. 

The morning sun did them no favors. 

“You want the shower?” Will asks, tossing their bags in the direction of the bed as if they offend him. “I can shower after, if you want.”

Hannibal smiles, ready to respond, but Will begins to ramble. 

“Or, together. That, uh, we could shower together.”

“I’ll prepare a breakfast for us while you wash up. I’ll take my turn after we eat,” Hannibal suggests. Will swallows and gives him a jerky, uncertain nod. Hannibal suppresses a smile, and adds, “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, Will.”

Will’s lips turn up at the corners before he can stop himself, and he ducks headfirst into the bathroom, shirt already off and in the trash bin by the front door. Hannibal smirks to himself, fantasizing again about the way Will’s body felt against his own; the final piece to the puzzle. 

The shower turns on, and Hannibal moves to brush his teeth in the sink. 

The sickly taste of morning washes out of his mouth, and with that, he puts the coffee on and begins making crepes. Simple and subtle, with a topping of strawberry sauce. Will likes strawberries. He learned that early in their relationship as doctor-patient. 

Falling in love with a man who has only known the touch of a woman his entire life had not gone over Hannibal’s head. He’d been entirely prepared to spend the rest of his life with Will, never achieving sexual gratification at his hands. When it comes to love, that doesn’t matter. 

However, now that they’ve crossed that threshold, Hannibal must admit he’s enthused beyond comparison. To touch Will again, knowing that the other man wishes to be touched. 

When Will is done with the shower, the crepes are nearly finished. 

Hannibal tenses, only because he doesn’t expect it, when Will sidles up beside him and kisses his shoulder. Hannibal turns to find he’s being handed a sweater. 

“That can’t be comfortable,” he mutters, fondling the frayed edges of the button up. Will has a towel wrapped around his waist. His chest is mottled with hickies. 

Inwardly, Hannibal convinces himself not to drop the pan so he can pick Will up by the waist and have him on the floor of their resort hut. It wouldn’t be a wise decision, and Will would be upset if he dirtied him again directly after a shower. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal tells him sincerely, taking the sweater in his hands. Will retreats to unpack their hiking materials. Neither of them will be feeling well enough to hike up the mountain again. 

He looks down at the sweater. It is a deep emerald. He doesn’t remember packing it. He steps back from the sizzling crepe for a moment to change into the article. Will hums his approval from where he’s perched on the bed. Hannibal tries not to let the praise go to his head as he steps back up to the stove. 

Will is sitting at the small dining table when Hannibal is finished. 

He brings over two crepes on separate plates, drizzles heated strawberry sauce from a pan with a nozzle onto Will’s. He likes his own plain. 

Will is dressed in a grey t-shirt and sweatpants. He appears to have no plans to leave the hut anytime soon. Hannibal can’t say he blames him. His back is still screeching with every shift and movement. The shower should be able to alleviate the ache later with steam and hot water.

“I’m starving,” Will admits, shoving a large portion in his mouth. “I’m fairly sure those monkeys stole our granola bars. I found a few of them missing.” 

“Hunters and gatherers,” Hannibal muses. “I’m sure they’re making good use of them.”

Will watches him with a tender gaze, unfamiliar in its credence. Hannibal nearly startles when Will’s foot strokes the instep of his own under the table. He struggles to swallow the piece of crepe in his mouth. 

“You’re quite handsome like that, you know.” 

Hannibal meets his eyes, curious. “Like what?” 

“When you indulge me.” 

“It is a habit I’ve yet to break,” Hannibal teases, pushing back against the touch of his foot. Enough pressure to let Will know he appreciates the gesture. 

Will smirks and says, “Don’t.”

Hannibal cannot suppress his smile at the response. He directs it at his crepe, the meal not nearly as beautiful as the face he can’t bring himself to look directly at. It is absurd, how Will manages to undo him at every turn. He’s weaker now, against his whims, since they’ve shared everything. 

They fill their stomachs for a few silent minutes, both hungry after spending a night in a cave. The silence is terribly comfortable. 

At one point, Hannibal glances toward the kitchen and sees the mini-bar just beyond the dishwasher. He hates admitting when he’s missed something, but he hadn’t acknowledged it when they first arrived. He’d foolishly thought Will had somehow broken into his bedroom closet and found the bottles of alcohol at home in their villa, and lugged one along. 

It was foolish of him to treat Will as an enemy last night. 

It hadn’t just been the alcohol. He’d been short-tempered, for a long time coming, when it came to Will’s attitude. Little had he known, the man had doubted his feelings. So much so, he’d created theories about his true intentions. Quite a few misunderstandings were had.

“Will, I’m not one to apologize often. I rarely make a fool out of myself. But, I made a fool out of myself last night,” Hannibal starts, and regrets his wording when Will freezes, jaw clenched. He thinks he’s talking about the sex, so Hannibal clarifies abruptly, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper because you had a drink.” 

Will sighs, muscles loosening up.

“Hannibal, it’s alright. We both said…some things.” 

“And yet, you had more substantial reason behind your accusations. I took your drinking the wrong way. I should allow you to control that aspect of your life, no interference on my side.” 

Will chuckles dryly. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” Hannibal means to protest, but Will raises a hand. “I’m joking. I honestly don’t mind, it’s probably better you’ve locked that stuff away at home. At least, for a while. I need to pace myself.” 

“Perhaps I’ll return a few to the rack, for easier access when we have dinner.”

Will chews thoughtfully, then swallows. 

“If you think that’s best,” he mutters, nonchalant. 

Frankly, Hannibal is stunned. Will’s attitude about his vagary since his memories returned, and the way he’s treated and responded to him, has taken a drastic shift since the night before. There is a trust between them now that hadn’t been there before. He finds for the first time in his life, he doesn’t wish to betray it. 

“I’d like to disinfect those after dinner,” Hannibal murmurs, gesturing to the puncture wounds in Will’s neck. They’ve already scabbed over, but Hannibal should take a better look at them. Make sure there isn’t any risk for infection. 

Will rubs his fingers over the marks, smiling with bared teeth. 

“Yeah, I’ve never been bitten that hard before.” Will blinks up at him and smiles wider. “I’m not looking for an apology, by the way. I, uh, I’m satisfied you got a taste.”

Hannibal’s eyes darken, and his lips lift up in challenge. 

“I haven’t tasted everything,” he reminds, and Will’s grin fades, replaced distinctly with arousal. Seeing him this way, affected so heavily by Hannibal’s flirtation, it’s intoxicating. 

Will licks his lips, and pokes at his crepe.

Hannibal can tell he’s not thinking about the food. 

“Would you care to move into my bedroom permanently, when we return home?” Hannibal asks, gauging. Sex doesn’t necessarily mean every step in their relationship must progress.

Will’s head snaps up, and he searches Hannibal’s eyes for any sign of insincerity. When he finds none, his face softens, and he nods. 

“I’d like that.” 

After dinner, Hannibal takes a shower and then finds Will on the bed, scrolling through Hannibal’s tablet. The news doesn’t appear to frighten him as much, as Hannibal finds Tattlecrime open on one of the tabs. Will places it aside when he joins him. 

With a first aid kit open, Hannibal soaks a cloth in saline solution, and dabs the wound for a few minutes, making sure the scabbing doesn’t worsen. He applies an antibiotic; Will hisses during this, and again when he puts a bandage over both of the bite marks. 

“I’ll check tomorrow for signs of infection. I do not believe we will need to leave these on for longer than a day,” Hannibal explains, sliding the first aid kit under the bed. 

Will sits closer, resting one of his knees against Hannibal’s thigh. 

“Will we be able to go down to the water tomorrow?”

Hannibal falters.

“The beach?” he asks, to clarify.

Will nods, running his fingers over the trousers Hannibal changed into after the shower. If he were a younger man, this touch would be enough to rouse him. Will’s fingertips skirt over his kneecap, feeling the bone underneath. 

“I’d like to swim,” Will states, and it sounds like a declaration. He looks up, clear blue eyes shining with contentment when he adds, “It’s been a long time.”

Hannibal places a hand over Will’s and brings the hand to his lips, kissing the back of it where the blue veins are most prominent hidden underneath pale flesh. Will lifts a thumb to stroke Hannibal’s chin.

“I’d like to join you.”

The beach is more crowded than their shore at home. There, they have a private area all to themselves. Only a few passersby, neighbors generally, arrive to cross their sands. Here, there are tourists from all manner of cultures. It appears a European cruise ship has just come to shore. Hannibal can make out several Scandinavian dialects amongst the large clusters of families and friends. It is relieving, to know a ship of Americans had not pulled into the docks. 

They still keep to one secluded area of the beach. There is more gravel than sand here, which is most likely why the tourists haven’t ventured this far. 

The rocks and shells don’t seem to bother Will. He walks barefoot to the shoreline, gesturing for Hannibal to follow. Hannibal must admit that he himself prefers softer sands, pink like the Bahamas. Not these beige and grey pointed offenders digging into his feet. 

When he reaches the water, he is shocked to find it cooler than the waves at home. It is fortunate the day is a warm one as he submerges himself completely and instantaneously feels revitalized, refreshed. 

Dunking his whole body under the water too, is Will, emerging with hair darkened and slicked back, only one curl sticking to his face like a strand of seaweed. He’s grinning, paddling over to Hannibal. 

“Your wound isn’t agitating you is it?” Will asks in a raised voice. The waves are loud, lapping around their ears as they tread. 

Hannibal shakes his head and replies, “I believe the salt water is good for me.” 

Will appears relieved to find this is the case. Hannibal acknowledges silently the salt water would be good for his recently unbandaged neck wounds as well. He watches as Will floats on his back, staring up at the sky carrying the weight of peace only dead men are known to carry.

Hannibal mimics the action, and Will reaches out a hand in the water so they can intertwine. Otherwise, Hannibal might have drifted away with the pull of the tide. 

He closes his eyes; the sun is too bright to level with.

For a while, he manages to float with Will and forget himself. The spry taste of salt in his mouth lingers, and his body begins to feel clammy as time passes. He only comes back to awareness when a wave stronger than the last several jostles him. 

Will’s hand retracts from his own and they both look to see a giant wave following it in the distance. There is only about thirty seconds until it will crash over them.

“Will, climb on my back.”

“Excuse me?” Will laughs. 

“Trust me,” Hannibal prods, smiling wide and genuine to put Will at ease. Will sighs dramatically, wading over to climb up on Hannibal’s back. With the water distributing their weight abnormally, it is quite easy to tread with him resting there. 

The wave is close now, the water trembling with it.

Hannibal turns to keep the shore in his line of sight. “Hold your breath,” he warns, before timing the dive underwater with the collision of the wave. He moves into a diving position just as the wave rushes over them, and they are pulled all the way to shore, so fast that they tumble over the gravelly sand when they reach it. Will falls off of him as the tide goes back in. 

Will whistles, when he sees how far the wave took them. They are on their backs on the shoreline, smaller waves lapping at their toes as they heave in breaths.

Hannibal gazes at him with every ounce of adoration he feels and Will turns to meet his expression with mutual affection. The mirrored emotions between them still manage to shock him. 

The look of hunger in Will’s eyes isn’t a new one, but leaning in, testing the waters is. He drapes himself over Hannibal’s body and kisses him sweetly on the lips, dragging his mouth over Hannibal’s cheek, and kissing the wet, soft skin there as well. 

Hannibal holds him by his waist, images flashing to mind of holding him down and tasting the heady arousal in his groin, the precum spilling from the head of his cock, onto Hannibal’s tongue. Wanting, needing. If only he could have him here, but instead he separates them just enough to whisper, “Will, the locals won’t take kindly to this display.”

“I know,” Will mutters, rolling off of him. He sticks close, shifting uncomfortably on the shells beneath. Devious as he is with a knife or gun wielded in his hand, he adds in a sultry whisper, “I want you all to myself.” 

“You’ll have me all to yourself at home come morning,” Hannibal murmurs, steeling himself from leaning in for another kiss, another touch. 

Will’s eyes darken, and he gives a quick nod, fingers curling around Hannibal’s wrist. Hannibal grows smug, imagining all the things they may get up to in the comfort and seclusion of their bedroom. All of the misunderstanding, the tribulations; they were all necessary to get here. 

Sleeping against one another, they attempt to make the most of the three or so hours they have to rest before they must rise and drive the rental car back to the ferry docking center. Then, they will be on their way home. 

Hannibal is drifting gradually into the scape of contortion and fantasy when Will says, very low, “I want to kill with you again, Hannibal. It will be beautiful.” 

For a while, Hannibal believes he dreamed the words, but then it registers that these were in fact words from the real Will’s mouth. A request to experience beauty with him again, a promise. By the time he understands, Will is fast asleep, arm tucked tight around Hannibal’s stomach, nose nuzzled close to his shoulder. 

Hannibal smiles and feels, for lack of a better word, complete. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more left you guys!!! i will hopefully get it done by tomorrow, but i want it to be a little longer. gotta let the boys have sexy time outside of a cave with actual lube, or i'll never rest. i'm so happy there's so many who have enjoyed this journey. i can't wait to write the ending xoxo


	8. Chapter 8

The ferry takes an extra hour leaving the docking port, so they don’t return home until the afternoon. Hannibal is delighted to begin lunch right away when they’re back in their fair-sized kitchen, and Will is eager to move his things into Hannibal’s bedroom. 

A shared space. A shared life. 

_One half of my heart is his, one half of his heart is mine._

Will sets aside liberal space in the wardrobe for his coats, suits. Most of the items in his possession are from the boat, or from this house. He can’t help but wonder how many possessions he owns in properties all around the world. 

Hannibal appears in the doorway of the bedroom about a half hour later, the smug expression he wears as he scans Will’s new territory within his own does not bother him, surprisingly. 

In fact, Will finds he feels similar. 

“I’ve whittled my shape into your province, and I’ve sunk my claws deep into the soil of the territory which you mark,” Will drawls, sitting back against one of the bed poles with the veneer of ownership. “We share a silhouette now. You can’t cut a part of me out without cutting yourself.” 

Hannibal strides closer, eyes glossing over the bedsheets. Will had changed them from soft colors to blacks and golds. The only thing they didn’t match had been the miniature red rug underneath the bedposts. He’d taken that away as well, stored it away in another room.

“Do we share an appetite?” Hannibal asks, helping Will to his feet with the strength of one hand. 

Will raises a teasing brow. “Voracious.” 

“I’ve made an egg scramble,” he tells him, elucidates. “The very same recipe from our first meal together.” 

“Not so voracious. Sentimental, are we?” 

“Will–” Will decides the only way he can prevent a pout from forming is to kiss him. As luck would have it, he’s very much able to do such a thing now. He slides a hand up into Hannibal’s hair and tugs him closer, gently. Hannibal makes a soft noise when they collide, but melts easily under Will’s insistent, puckering lips. Will kisses him just long enough to feel warmth blossom in his belly, and for Hannibal’s blush to color the skin where his collar is open, revealing. 

“This is dangerous,” Will whispers, running hands over Hannibal’s apron. 

“Us?”

Will nods, lifting a hand up to brush a thumb along the glistening seam of Hannibal’s bottom lip, to make the point; _Not just us, us together, us in this way_. 

“Dangerous for everyone around us, every breathing, living thing. Dangerous to us, like two tornados choosing to spread throughout the world side by side, unrelenting, unforgiving.” 

Hannibal appears thoughtful, then breathes deeply.

“How does it make you feel?”

Will wants to ask Hannibal how it makes _him_ feel.

“I’ve always been curious,” he begins, deliberating, “what the aftermath of a supercell storm looks like up close. The debris, the fallen powerlines, the bodies covered in dust and sand.” 

“I imagine Pompeii didn’t look much different,” Hannibal states. “Though the victims were charred, cast over by liquid flame. Such destruction is a powerful, baffling force. Yet man has created evils more devastating, or equally as such.” 

“Is this the part where you tell me God is brilliant?” 

Hannibal strokes a hand over Will’s jaw, swiping a thumb against the grain of his beard before murmuring, “I once believed it was the most brilliant thing of all, to make man in your image, only to watch man discover new and glorious ways to destroy one another.”

“And now?” 

“And now I find I have far more interest in natural disasters.”

Will chuckles, eliminating the space between them to nudge his nose against Hannibal’s. They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, tenderly touching skin without intent. 

“If we live to our old age, maybe we can retire to Kansas.”

“Off to see the Wizard of Oz?” Hannibal jokes, and Will balks. 

“That’s by far the strangest thing I’ve ever heard come from your mouth, and that’s saying a lot, Hannibal,” Will tells him, feeling light with humor. 

They can touch, laugh, and tease.

The world does not feel like it will end because of it, even though Will feels very strongly that with each passing day, their passion for each other will grow talons, resolute in the manner of a catastrophe. 

“Can we eat in the living room?” Will asks, making his eyes as round as possible. He’s a grown man, he refuses to bat his eyelashes. At least not for a request as simple as this. 

“As long as we do not make a habit of it,” Hannibal offers. 

“You’re going to have to get accustomed to my habits,” Will warns him. Hannibal shoots back with a ‘challenge accepted’ expression, but Will shakes his head. “All that talk about running away together, and we never considered how well we’d actually fare sharing the same house.”

“Roommate trifles were the last concerns on my mind.” 

“Fair enough. I found myself dreaming about it, when you would suggest leaving. I’d wake up, feeling like I’d just been beside you in a king sized bed in Italy.” Will feels his cheeks go hot, “I wondered then, if you would have always wanted just the one.” 

Hannibal’s eyes close briefly, envisioning these dreams. He opens them, and Will wants to kiss his eyelids shut, allowing him to return to silver-lined delectation. Instead, Hannibal speaks, with a ponderous intonation.

“You wondered about that, even when you were not thinking of me in that way?” 

Will looks out past the bedroom window, over the desolate sand plains. 

“I believe I loved you, before I understood what it meant to love you.” 

“Will, look at me,” Hannibal urges, quietly. It takes a while for Will to turn his body completely, trail his gaze up until he meets those golden-brown eyes. There is no explanation for how they look black or red in certain lights. And how here, they look like melted caramel. “To say I love you would be too slight. But, to say otherwise would be a lie.” 

Trembling breath leaves Will’s lips as Hannibal’s palm finds his warped cheek. 

“I have never loved anything, as consummately as I love you.” 

Will knows that Hannibal loved his sister, but this is a different love. 

“I changed you,” he whispers. Hannibal nods, unlike all those years ago when Will had declared, insisted that he changed Hannibal just as profoundly as he did him. Hannibal had looked away from him then, as if this most devastating truth had invaded every cell in his body.

Hannibal kisses him, with every ounce of gratitude coiled around his sensibilities. Will kisses him back, hugging him close. They stay this way for another minute before breaking apart. 

“The foods gone cold by now, I bet,” Will mutters.

“I left it on the burner,” Hannibal tells him. “It should still be simmering.” 

Will smiles, and nods towards the door. 

He drops his arms, and with one last stroke to Will’s cheek, Hannibal does the same. 

When Hannibal turns to leave, Will is struck with the urge to profess his love, again and again. It’s silly. He’s never felt that way before, and while he _can_ keep a lid on his urges, he wonders when he became so amorous, so willing to dismiss his dignity just to remind Hannibal, incessantly and consistently, that he loves him despite everything. 

Despite all of it. 

Will goes to the living room, and waits. 

There, they share an egg scramble on the couch. It tastes nearly the same as it did in the motel room five or so years ago. The meat appears identical. He can’t disregard that these may be leftovers from their first kill after the Dragon, but he doesn’t mind being in the dark. Hannibal will tell him if he deems the information fit, and _then_ Will can comment.

They converse, about smaller things. 

This is odd too, and new. Small talk; speaking of lesser things than death and evil. Hannibal talks about France, how it is far enough away from Italy that he’d like to bring Will there next. “We could still visit Florence, and drive back to France in the same night. Like we were never there.”

“I don’t particularly want to wander the streets of Italy and pass by posters of your face with the words ‘Il Mostro’ in bold print,” Will tells him, patient and smiling more than he ever has. 

Hannibal hums, pleased with himself. 

“Do you prefer the name Il Mostro or the Chesapeake Ripper?” 

“Chesapeake Ripper always sounded anticlimactic to me. Your kills were far too brilliant and sensational to be tethered to the name of a bay,” Will explains. “Il Mostro is a bit crude, but I’d consider it more accurate when it comes to your nature.” 

“Far too brilliant and sensational?” Hannibal echoes, complacently stabbing a sausage with his fork. Will rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t want to know how many times I complimented your crimes to your face in your office,” Will grumbles, sliding a portion of scrambled egg into his mouth. “Hell, you must have thought you were so clever.” 

“I was,” Hannibal asserts. “But, so were you.”

Will’s jaw shifts. He’s not sure how true that is. Hannibal had dropped far too many hints, and he’d missed them all right out of the gate. At least he had been suspicious of _something,_ even if he hadn’t known _what_ at the time. 

“You told me once you couldn’t come to a dinner party I was hosting, because you had a date with the Chesapeake Ripper,” Hannibal says, pompous to an extent Will considers throwing his dish against the wall so hard it shatters. 

“Yeah, well, the Chesapeake Ripper had more to offer.”

“And to think you told me I didn’t interest you.” 

“You didn’t.”

Hannibal smirks, gathering some steamed vegetables on his fork. Will ignores his smug stare to chug down the rest of his coffee. The room grows silent, and Will despises the fact it is comfortable. 

The doorbell rings. 

Will freezes. Hannibal does as well, then he huffs in understanding. 

“That would be Chiyoh. I forgot, I’d emailed her asking her to deliver something.” 

Will is confused why Hannibal wouldn’t just ask her to send it in the post, but he doesn’t question. He sets his bowl down and follows Hannibal to the front door. 

At the threshold of the front yard and the foyer, Chiyoh is standing in a navy coat. She looks naked without her gun strapped to her chest, and she’s holding a chest in her arms. It is a very dusty and old-fashioned chest, by appearance. 

“Arigato, Chiyoh. It means a great deal you would travel this far to deliver this for me.” 

“I don’t mind. I wished to see you in person, to see how well you’ve recovered,” she deadpans, turning like a ghost to face Will. “Long time no see.”

Will isn’t sure if he should take that as a joke. It hasn’t been too long since she’s been here, but with Chiyoh, he can’t imagine she’s much of a jester. In response, he decides to smile. It must come across as weak, because her eyes very nearly roll when she turns back to face Hannibal. 

“I must inform you, Jack Crawford has been spotted in Europe. Specifically, Italy. The Verger Estate has deployed agents to work alongside him, so he has manpower. Neither he nor the Estate appears to believe you and Will Graham are dead,” Chiyoh advises.

Will blinks. “How do you know?” He looks to Hannibal and asks, “How does she know?” 

Astoundingly, Hannibal ignores him and requests, “Keep me updated on their whereabouts. We do not plan to leave this property for a few years to come.”

Will bites his cheek to prevent himself from shooting out a remark. It isn’t as if he expected to leave the villa anytime soon, but he hates being discussed as if he’s not in the vicinity. 

“Of course.” She hands Hannibal the chest. “I must depart, if I wish to return by sunrise.” 

“Return where?” Will finds himself asking. 

Chiyoh turns on her heels, faces him. He can detect the small smile that appears on her face, even though her hair is down, cascading her features. 

“Take care of yourselves,” she adds, and Hannibal gives a bow of the head. 

Will shuts the door, and watches Hannibal lug the chest to the coffee table in the living room. He places it on the opposite side, so it doesn’t crush their food. 

For a moment, Will wants to chew him out for not answering him, but he decides that it isn’t worth the argument. Knowing them, they’ll find something to bicker about tomorrow. 

“She came all this way,” _from God knows where,_ “Just to give us this?” 

“This could not be risked getting lost in the mail, Will. It would be detrimental. This is the only asset in my will and testament that I specifically declared would go to no one, including you.”

Will is intrigued, sauntering over to the chest to examine the exterior. 

It seems quite old, not just because of the dust. The design of the box, the weight to it. It looks as if it belongs in the Victorian era, not in the twenty-first century. 

“I wished to be alive, if I were to give it away. There are direct instructions in my will that state these are to be burned in the event of my death.” 

Will understands. He looks up, carefully, to find Hannibal watching him with reverence. Will unlatches the chest, and moves to open it, looking up one more time for any outward resistance. He finds none, and opens the chest to reveal a stack of leather-bound notebooks. 

“My journals,” Hannibal explains. “From when I was a boy, a teenager. I stopped writing them well into my twenties, as I believed continuing to catalogue my existence would prove dangerous. There are detailed descriptions in these texts of every murder I committed before being pronounced ‘Il Mostro.’ There are recollections of time spent with my sister I haven’t read since I wrote them. There are sketches of houses my family owned, in secret and otherwise. In the wrong hands, they could land in an Evil Minds museum.” 

“You’re giving them to me?” Will asks, quietly astonished. 

“To do what you please with them. Should I die before you, I wish for you to use them to remember me by, or to burn them if the mood strikes. You told me once you saw images of me in places I haven’t been in years, crude imitations and shadows of reality. If these can help you visualize the entire picture, if that is something you still wish to see, I want to give it to you.” 

Will feels short on breath, stroking a finger over the dust-ridden latch on the first journal. He’s on his knees, bending over the chest to see them closely. The inside of the box smells like bones and death. Perhaps there are bones, within the lining of the chest, the bindings of the books. 

He could spend hours, searching through the thin pages, thousands and thousands of words. It would be far more interesting than baiting fishing hooks, or taking late night jogs. 

Before he can prevent it, he feels tears gather in his eyes. 

They don’t fall, even when he gazes up at Hannibal from the floor and finds his expression open and giving. Willing to expose himself in every singular way, all for Will. 

“I looked up at the night sky there,” Will tells him, and Hannibal knows he means Lithuania. His birthplace, the soil Will had sailed weeks to step upon. “Orion above the horizon and, near it, Jupiter. I wondered if you could see it, too. I wondered if our stars were the same.” 

“I believe some of our stars will always be the same,” Hannibal responds, tone low and soothing as the tide. “You entered the foyer of my mind and stumbled down the hall of my beginnings.” 

Will stands and moves around the table to drag Hannibal into a kiss. 

Hannibal’s arms move around him languidly, like they always do, like Will is fragile enough to break in half. Will adores the way he holds him, relishes it, but he tugs at his hair, draws him closer and harder against him. He lets Hannibal know this is the most profound gift that anyone has ever given him, that it graciously expounds upon Hannibal’s original gift, to let him _see._

“Do you want to look at them?” Will asks, breathlessly. Hannibal’s cupping his face in his hands and his cheeks feel so hot he’s fairly certain he’s searing his palms. “Before I go through the pages?” 

“No. They are inside me, each and every word.” 

Will brings the chest to an empty bedroom. 

He decides he’ll make this room into a new study. Perhaps, he’ll keep the bed, use it when the nights go on long enough that he wishes to fall asleep reading the words of one of Hannibal’s journals.

He doesn’t plan on beginning this journey tonight. They are in Lithuanian, to begin with. Most of them, anyway. Some Italian, only a few English. He plans on spending long hours translating with proper books, rather than the internet. It seems the right way to cherish the entries. 

He flips through the pages of the first book, though. The text is wonky, like a child’s handwriting. There are sketches, not nearly as grand as Hannibal’s recent works, but still quite the feat for a youngling. 

Will spends the rest of the day meticulously cleaning the chest and the notebooks, wiping away dust, using a cleaner from the kitchen to take away any built up mold. The books await him upon the surface of the polished desk, for tomorrow, for their future. 

Will has never felt so taken by a gift in his life. 

The cognitive dissonance he felt in Lithuania, the sacrifice of the Mayfly Man. These things may have a meaning beyond what he’d considered them to have years ago. 

By the time he leaves the study, the sky has turned dark. 

He steps outside for a moment of fresh air, feeling like being alive is not only possible, but holds potential far beyond what he could have ever imagined. 

Will finds Hannibal in their bedroom, sorting through the wardrobe. He wouldn’t admit to it, but he is fussy when it comes to arranging clothes and decor. He is most likely rearranging Will’s clothes, in new spaces and corners. Will used to care about order, knowing exactly where he could find every article of clothing, but he finds it matters less and less to him these days. 

Order. Keeping himself together. Not letting go. 

He’s ready to let go now, of a lot of things. 

Hannibal meets his eyes with tenderness, and in just a few steps, Will is kissing him. Gently, for a few delicate seconds, and then he’s shoving him hard against the wardrobe. The door slams shut with the force, and Hannibal’s hands dart out, one on his neck to steady him, the other at his waist keeping him close. 

Will sucks on his bottom lip, moaning when Hannibal’s groin bumps against his own. Hannibal matches the fervor of his kisses, scraping his teeth over his tongue, mouth falling open to allow Will’s sloppy, needy intrusion. 

“I don’t have any journals,” Will tells him, pants into his neck. Quickly, he sucks kisses up his throat, over his jawline. Hannibal must have just shaved, the skin smooth instead of prickly. “I can’t give you what you’ve given me.” 

“You don’t need to–”

“If I could split my skull open for you, I would,” Will kisses him, gropes at his arms, tugging Hannibal closer. “If I could hollow myself out and let you walk in my skin for a day, I’d do it in an instant, but metaphysically these things could never be, so I’ll give you the next best thing.” 

When he pulls back, Hannibal’s eyes are half-lidded, his lips are parted. He’s looking at Will with lust and love and confusion all mixed into one, and it’s earth-shatteringly beautiful. 

“Inside me,” Will explains, husky with want. “One way or the other.” 

Hannibal’s eyes widen a fraction. The shock that he must feel in order for this reaction to manifest has to be enormous, and Will can’t help but feel a little smug at the prospect he is the cause. 

“You’ve never, have you?"

“No, that doesn’t matter to me. I trust you. I want you, that’s all that matters,” Will tells him, refusing to let Hannibal go or move, even fractionally. He desires every ounce of heat from his body, every soft spanse of skin aching for his touch. 

“You mustn’t do this just for my sake,” Hannibal whispers.

Will is struck by his sincerity. As much as Hannibal may believe he is a selfish creature, Will sees straight through him. Hannibal won’t press him, won’t insist on this, unless Will himself genuinely longs for it. 

“Killing two birds with one stone. It’s something I want, _and_ it’s something I want to give you. These two things are not mutually exclusive.” 

Will doesn’t know what penetrative sex with a man will feel like. He doesn’t care. They’d arrive here eventually, and he wants to dive right in, let Hannibal be inside him in the only manner he physically can without killing him for it. He wants to feel the way he felt with Hannibal in the cave, but _more._

Hannibal presses his forehead against Will’s, and Will lunges them into another passionate kiss. He makes it sloppy. He likes crossing sharp red lines over Hannibal’s definition of proper lovemaking and worship. Hannibal’s hands move from his waist, his neck, both curving down his ass, driving him hard against his pelvis so they both moan. 

“Take your clothes off before I tear them off,” Will murmurs and Hannibal’s eyes flash, working to do just that. Will works on his own. 

It is fumbling; they have trouble keeping their hands off each other.

Will strips down to his boxers, Hannibal just beginning to work on his trousers when he does. He isn’t working fast enough for his tastes, so Will swats his hands away and buries his face in his neck, breathing in his scent and licking away the day’s sweat as he works deftly at the heavy leather belt, and his fly. 

“Will–” he breathes, fingers finding Will’s arm and sending electric shocks up his spine just from the brief, barest of touches. “Will, let me–”

“What?”

Hannibal levels him with patience, brushes a hand over the scar on Will’s cheek. “Let me be slow with you.”

“I don’t need that.”

“I do.” 

Will sighs, sharply, but begins stepping backwards. Slowly, stopping when his thighs hit the bed frame. He sits and doesn’t take his eyes off of Hannibal as he moves backward on his arms, centering himself in the middle of the bedsheets. His pale skin must stick out stark against the dark sheets. He wonders what his face pushed into the golden pillowcases would look like. 

With a coy tilt of the head, he challenges Hannibal to follow.

He expects Hannibal to pounce the second his trousers are off, but in his briefs, he walks over to the lamp, and dims the lights. Will watches him meticulously scrounge the drawers, set out ivory candles on every surface available. They are lit. One after the other. 

Will is left on the bed for enough time to grow anxious. He doesn’t want to change his mind, but the reality that they’re going to have full, planned out sex, is dawning. 

This isn’t the ravaging they experienced within rock walls. This is going to be slow, loving, deliberate and conscientious. Will’s heart pounds, at the thought.

His throat goes dry when Hannibal removes a small jar of clear jelly from his bedside drawer. He takes out a towel from the bathroom and places it on the chair by his desk. 

He removes his watch and places it on his dresser. 

Will tenses when he sits on the bed. Relaxes only when Hannibal places a hand on his thigh, and smiles down at him as he runs his fingers over the soft hair there. The erection that had begun to flag perks up again, and his hips roll subtly in search of friction. 

“May I take these off?” Hannibal asks, the tips of his fingers sliding under the edges of his boxers, tickling the sensitive skin there. Will’s eyes flutter, and he nods. 

Hannibal hooks his fingers in his boxers and luxuriates in taking them off, eyes falling on his half-hard cock. He moves closer on the bed, looming over him, face close to the scar on his stomach. The boxers haven’t even dropped to the floor when Hannibal takes him in his mouth, as if he physically can’t resist. Will groans, spine arching off the mattress. 

He hardens against his tongue almost instantly. Hannibal encourages it, with a flat tongue, and probing hands dipping below the swell of his hips to grope. 

Blushing from the obscene sounds coming from his own mouth, he clamps his lips shut. They had been loud in the cave, much louder than this, but that had been bestial, muffled by the storm. 

They are alone in this silence, nothing but the flickering flames alive around them. Will’s confidence would dwindle if not for the ardor Hannibal treats him with, sucking him hard like he’s always known what keeps Will awake at night, deepthroating him as if he weren’t human. 

“Hannibal, I don’t–” Will moans when he suckles on the head, bobbing back down after. His throat contacts around him, drawing him further. “Christ, I don’t wanna come like this.” 

He’s closer than he’d like to admit. 

Hannibal pulls off, lips shining and pink. He’s smirking, far too satisfied for someone who just had a mouthful of cock. Will pants, watching him and deciding he doesn’t mind him looking like that. 

“Do this alot, do you?” Will teases, running a hand through Hannibal’s hair. It falls over the older man’s eyes, and he instantly looks softer. Will finds he likes the way he looks like this, too.

Hannibal crawls closer until they’re nose to nose, and he reaches down to fist his cock and pump him fast enough to make Will’s eyes roll back just a bit before he can control them.

“Don’t–”

Hannibal’s other hand runs over the bruises from the other night, on his chest, his nipples. He jumps, body bumping up against his when he digs his fingers into them. 

The pleasure mounts, pain melding into gratification.

“Hannibal, I’m–”

Hannibal stops and he groans, deflating. 

“Not yet,” Hannibal informs him with ease.

There is still a strong hand gripping the base of his cock. Hannibal moves back so can urge a bead of precum to pool at the tip, and then swipes a thumb over it.

Will twitches, mouth falling open when Hannibal brings it to his lips. 

His tongue swipes out, gathering up his taste, and he grins wolfishly down at him like it had been the most innocent gesture he could have possibly made. Will shakes his head, pulling him down, one hand clasped in the hair on his head, one in the hair on his chest. 

They kiss, Will grinding his hard, wet cock against Hannibal’s dry, half-hard one, through his briefs. It’s unfair he’d brought him to the brink only to leave him wanton for however long the preparation will take. He’s throbbing, needy, on the verge of begging. 

It’s probably what Hannibal has always wanted. 

“Have me,” Will whispers, licking the seam of his lips. 

Hannibal sighs, shuddering hot breath against his own lips, kissing Will one last time before he moves up and away to grab the jar from the dresser. He uncaps it. The scent immediately hits Will’s nose. It is strong, and floral.

“I didn’t think this stuff was scented,” Will mutters. 

“I import custom-made lubricant. This was made with natural oils and Roman Chamomile,” Hannibal explains, slathering his fingers up. 

Will swallows, watching him warily. 

“Of course you’d import it.” 

“Lie back for me, Will,” Hannibal instructs, gently. Will follows his orders, breathing harder now. In the very least, the humiliation of being put on display like this had vanished the second Hannibal put his mouth on his dick. 

Hannibal grows closer and Will sits up. 

“Take yours off,” he says, running a foot along the side of Hannibal’s briefs. “Please.” 

Hannibal smiles, as if his own clothes were an afterthought. Unbothered, he slips out of his briefs and drops them to the floor to pick up later. Will got a look at his cock in the cave, but now he’s able to admire the sight of it, the length, jutting out from a thicket of groomed silver hair.

There will be a day he can spend time learning how to take it in his mouth, learn what Hannibal likes. If he likes a tongue probing the slit, if he likes the veins along his shaft stroked. Will suddenly wants to know everything about him, in this respect. 

For now, Hannibal closes in on him, bending once for a close-mouthed kiss before he sits on his haunches and lifts one of Will’s legs over his shoulder. Will digs his heel into the shoulder blade he finds there, and winces as he’s bent, whole body tilting with the repositioning. 

“Let me know if you feel any unnatural pain.” 

Hannibal brings his lubed up fingers to the crease between his thighs and Will automatically tenses all over. Hannibal waits until he relaxes, patient as ever, and then begins to finger him open. 

The first takes a while, getting used to the feeling, not wanting to push it out and wiggle away. It feels far too slick, and intrusive, but Will isn’t going to complain and end things. Not when they’ve come this far. He kisses Hannibal and that makes it a little better, giving himself something to channel his arousal toward, not this new alien feeling. 

If it doesn’t feel good, at least Hannibal will be inside him. 

That is all he wants, in the end. 

When Hannibal adds a second, he bares his teeth. 

“Relax,” he whispers, kissing Will on the cheek. Will can’t help but think his arm must be hurting, thrusting in the same way for an extended amount of time. 

“Trying,” Will promises, through gritted teeth. He nuzzles against Hannibal’s face, finding the proximity is putting him at ease. He can feel it when Hannibal pushes deeper, begins to open him up in full.

“Bear down.” 

“What?” 

“Trust me, Will,” Hannibal smiles kindly, instilling him with tenderness. Will breathes out, shakily, before doing as he’s told. It feels like he’s going to push Hannibal out of him, but he finds his rim relaxing, the fingers sliding deeper. 

“Oh,” Will murmurs, and then a third joins the fray. It doesn’t hurt as bad as he thinks it should. Hannibal’s able to scissor them apart, stretch his walls, curls them and– “ _Oh._ ” 

He moans, ripples of pleasure drawn out of him with each curl of Hannibal’s fingertips. Distantly, he can hear Hannibal chuckling, but he’s lost in his own head for a while before Hannibal returns to the straight, rigid thrusting. 

Will’s breathing evens out, as much as it can. He notices he’s digging half-moon marks into Hannibal’s shoulders so he splays his hands flat on Hannibal’s chest instead. 

“God, sorry,” he gasps.

“Hurt me all you like.”

There is a squelching noise when Hannibal thrusts with all three fingers particularly hard, and he winces. The humiliation is back, however attenuated. 

“Stop enjoying this,” Will grumbles, squirming when he curls his fingers again. It doesn’t hit directly on his prostate this time, just brushes against it lightly.

“I believe you are the one enjoying this,” Hannibal murmurs in his ear. “Would you like something bigger?” 

Will turns pink, his chest colored with a bright blush. He nods and yelps when Hannibal abruptly removes his fingers. Will’s never felt his hole swell out, twitch like that. As if his body needs to be filled. 

“It may sting for a moment, but I’ll give you more than enough time to adjust. Please do not fret, Will,” Hannibal explains, uncapping the jar again to retrieve more lube. Will watches with wide eyes as he strokes himself. Blood thickens him, making his already significant length grow. 

Hannibal lets out a soft noise, lining himself up. 

Will wants to bottle that noise and keep it locked away, in a vault where only he owns the key. 

“Hold your legs for me,” Hannibal adds, voice heavier. 

Will grips his legs beneath his knees, stretching them back so they’re parallel to his shoulders. Hannibal smiles at the display, ogling him for longer than Will deems necessary. Will is about to bark at Hannibal for not moving on when the head of his cock breaches his hole. 

He gasps, letting out a gruff shout when Hannibal slides all the way in. Will groans again as they both adjust. Hannibal’s shoulders replace his hands in holding both of his legs up; Will has his hands placed on his collar bone, pushing just to make sure he doesn’t sink deeper. 

There isn’t even a _possibility_ of sinking deeper, but he’s so full he feels as if he should be bursting, like a balloon. 

It is difficult to kiss, but Will strains his neck up to reach his lips anyway. Hannibal hums, noise vibrating between them, and lowers himself down to his elbows on either side of Will’s head to kiss him deeper. Inadvertently, this rocks them together and Will whimpers. 

Hannibal’s cock is pressed snug to his prostate. Despite the slight pain from penetration, it is the only sensation on his mind. When Hannibal moves even just to reposition one of Will’s legs, Will moans, without meaning to. It is strange not to be in complete control. 

“Am I hurting you?” Hannibal asks softly.

“Not for a long time,” Will grits out, digging fingers into his nape. 

Hannibal is smiling, almost bashfully. Will smiles back, unable to help himself. He pets his silver hair that looks blonde in the firelight, smooths it down with soothing strokes and Hannibal’s heavy breathing begins to calm. 

“Hannibal, you can move. I won’t break,” Will says after a moment, pushing his hips forward. He lets out a shuddering noise when his cock brushes against his inner bundle of nerves. “It, _ah,_ it feels good.” 

Hannibal moves back onto his knees. This jostles both of them and Will throws an arm back to steady himself, pawing viciously at one of the pillows. Hannibal is watching him with dark eyes, hands pressing bruisingly into his thighs to keep his legs up and parted. 

Will braces himself for it, but is wracked with shock when Hannibal pulls out and pushes in for the first time. The first thrust feels so unreal, something hot and hard, emptying and filling him all at once, so much so he doesn’t react. Then Hannibal does it again, and he grazes his prostate so perfectly that a loud moan tumbles from his lips, body tensing and shuddering with pleasure. 

“Fuck, more,” he mutters, pitchy voice and gyrating hips. 

Hannibal looks good like this. Hair over his eyes. Stomach quivering with effort. Lust making his body beautifully rigid as he works to accommodate Will’s request. 

Will cranes his neck back, eyes slipping closed as Hannibal fucks him with shallow yet punctuating thrusts. With every other push into his body, the head of his cock brushes against his prostate and he lets out a low sound each time, rising in pitch as Hannibal quickens his pace. 

“F–Feels–” Will gasps, noise cracking at the edges as Hannibal slams into him. “Feels good. Don’t stop.” 

Hannibal doesn’t stop, but Will’s eyes shoot open when he feels his legs getting bent forward, further down than before. Hannibal is practically bending him in half, growing closer, deeper, as he fucks down. The slapping sounds increase, balls hitting sensitive skin. For a moment, the angle makes the pressure on his prostate intense to an ungodly level and he shouts, “Yes, god, yes!” Hands move to grab strands of his hair in encouragement, but Hannibal nudges his legs just a bit too far and pain shoots up his muscles and spine, sharp and tingling, “Wait, fuck, stop stop stop!” 

Hannibal pulls back, and out. Will whimpers and his legs flop to the mattress. 

Hannibal is right back over him, petting over his sweat-sheen face, slack with pleasure, but scrunching now from the scrutiny. “What’s wrong?” 

Will chuckles dryly, swatting his hand away. 

“I can’t _bend_ like that, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal blinks and ducks his head. “I overestimated your flexibility.” 

Will pulls him down against him and kisses him. “Maybe if I wasn’t forty,” he mumbles, sucking a kiss into Hannibal’s neck, “I’d like it if you kept going.” 

Hannibal’s smile is sweet, pink cheeks and a flash of pointed teeth. He kisses Will, and snakes a hand between them to line himself up again. An insane idea pops into Will’s head. Before Hannibal can slide back in, Will pushes him backward. 

He tumbles, bouncing on the mattress as Will climbs over him, straddling his hips with his thighs. Hannibal doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and it’s dangerously endearing. Will takes his hands and places them on his hips, allowing him to guide. 

“I could see how much you wanted me in the cave,” Will murmurs, gazing down at Hannibal through messy curls. He reaches back and presses the head of his cock against his hole. It takes a minute for it to pop back through the ring of muscle, and Will hisses as he’s filled again, rocking to get used to it. “You liked when I was on top of you, taking what I wanted.” 

Hannibal strokes up his hips, maintaining eye contact. 

“I like you ravenous,” he whispers, and Will grins fiendishly, fucking himself backward, as hard as he can. His dick slaps wet against his belly, but he’s too far gone to care about the obscenity.

Hannibal’s cock is slamming his prostate with each fall of Will’s hips, and he can’t stop moving to repeat the feeling, lifting up and dropping down for more and more electricity lighting him up from the inside out. He swivels his hips to see Hannibal’s eyes flutter with want. 

“I wanted you, god _fuck,_ years ago I wanted you,” Will gasps out, not capable of filtering himself as he grows closer to release. “I never knew how much.” 

Hannibal pulls Will down against him with urgent hands, curling fingers in his hair to keep him close as he delves his tongue in between his lips. It’s harder to ride him completely draped over his body, but he slides back and forth, trying to increase the stuttering rhythm. 

“I didn’t know it could feel like this, Will,” Hannibal tells him, on his lips. Will nods, understanding and empathizing. Sex has always felt like sex, never like a brutally magnificent and otherworldly joining. 

Hannibal’s knees raise up and he starts pistoning into him. Will groans, mouth falling open as he grips Hannibal’s shoulders tight. He feels on fire, entirely aflame and roaring. He won’t last. 

It doesn’t occur to him to touch himself, so much pleasure being drawn from his body in new, tantalizing ways, but when Hannibal wraps a hand around his leaking cock, he thrusts into it with desperation, coming so hard he sees white behind his eyelids.

The moans coming from his lips aren’t his own, loud and carnal, but he’s too distracted by Hannibal’s own low, gruff moans when he comes inside of him, to care. 

Will works his hips back, even as he starts to feel loose with exhaustion, just to wring the last of Hannibal’s orgasm out of him. Hannibal twitches up one more time, hugging Will tight to his body. His release feels slick, and warm within, like he’s sunk his toes into a bath. 

They shudder, against one another. Will buries his face in Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal doesn’t loosen his grip. 

“Don’t go,” Will whispers. Hannibal hums in question, the noise distant. “Just, don’t leave. Stay inside me, however long you can.” 

Hannibal rolls them, semi-hard cock sliding a bit deeper as he covers Will’s body with his. In this position, his cock can’t easily slip out. Will pulls him closer by his shoulders and relishes the feeling of being full, being carved open without a lick of pain. Hannibal’s cock is softening quickly, but it’s still there, he’s still there. Inside of him; they’re together. 

They come down, breathing in each other’s ears. 

Will turns his head to see Hannibal’s eyes shut tight, brow furrowed just a bit. “Does it hurt?” Will asks quietly and Hannibal takes a few seconds to shake his head ‘no.’

That means it does. 

Will separates them, as much as it pains him to do so. Hannibal lets out a sigh of relief, but shoots him a look of remorse. Will glances at the towel, wondering if he can muster up enough energy to crawl over and grab it from the desk chair. 

When he turns back, he finds Hannibal between his legs, lapping up the come released from Will’s cock, cleaning his belly with his tongue. Will’s cock twitches as the tongue passes over the head, and he squirms, oversensitive and aroused all at once. 

When Hannibal’s finished, he flips him around, and Will only has a moment to experience a heart-pounding sense of anxiety when two broad hands part his cheeks. Then, that same tongue is licking over his hole, diving in and tasting his own release inside Will’s body. 

The sensation is far more stimulating than Will could have ever imagined, not that he honestly imagined anyone’s tongue ever breaching him in this way, but he’s shocked to say the least. 

He’s still oversensitive, so he tries to wriggle away when Hannibal begins to suck, tongue dragging hard over his hole to get him to open further. Will shakes his head, begins to whimper out a plea for him to stop, when Hannibal pulls back, presses kisses up his spine. 

“You’re certifiable,” Will announces, breathless and panting into the bedsheets. 

A chuckle rumbles against the nape of his neck and Hannibal pulls him so he is laying back to chest with him. They scoot up against the headboard, and Hannibal strokes down his belly, still tacky with spit from a minute prior. 

“We taste the same,” Hannibal tells him, after a glowing silence. 

Will snorts. “Not sure that’s something I want to know.” 

Hannibal noses into his hair, feels Will’s flaccid cock with soft fingertips because he can. The touch tingles and tickles all at once.

“We are the same,” he murmurs. 

Will sighs, supposing that’s true. He strokes over Hannibal’s forearms, and intertwines their fingers. They both sigh then, simultaneously. Will leans his head back against Hannibal’s shoulder, feeling the pulse pumping rapidly. 

“Thank you for coming back.”

“From where?”

“You know where,” Will says, the moment still far too quiet to bicker. “I needed you and you came back. You always come back to me.”

“We’re alone, without each other.” 

Will sniffs, tears rising to his eyes. They fall, one by one. He can taste the salt, strikingly bitter in his mouth. The truth has never been so honest. 

The clock ticks on. They rest, half in sleep, half out of it. 

“When we kill again, it should be a message,” Will begins slowly, imagining bent limbs and carved skin. Ribs stretched open, organs scattered. Violent red coloring the spaces between their art and their crimes. “To Jack, to the Vergers, whoever is looking.”

Hannibal remains silent, for a long while. 

“Do you wish for it to be somebody we know?”

_Bedelia._

She comes to mind immediately, though Will isn’t sure if he can voice his decision right now. Not during this moment, even though he’d brought up the topic of death. 

“Maybe,” he whispers instead. 

Another bout of silence, this time more hesitant than the last. Hannibal’s arms tighten around Will, just barely, and he speaks closer to his ear, in a low, inquisitive timbre. 

“Tell me Will, would you ever say to me ‘Stop. If you loved me, you’d stop.’?”

Will smiles, slow. Obvious. 

“Not in a thousand years.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there were some parts of this chapter i wish i'd written better, but i think overall i'm extremely happy with this series, and i hope you guys find this to be an adequate ending!! xoxo to you all !! i'm not sure if i'm going to be writing another h/w fic soon, if i do i only sort of have one thing planned, but it's going to be small
> 
> also, used these lines from the deleted script of dolce cause i saw them on reddit recently and i YEARNED ok;  
> W: I looked up at the night sky there. Orion above the horizon and, near it, Jupiter. I wondered if you could see it, too. I wondered if our stars were the same.  
> H: I believe some of our stars will always be the same. You entered the foyer of my mind and stumbled down the hall of my beginnings.
> 
> and these lines from the harris books i swear im just paying homage to the way bryan fuller writes the scripts LOL;  
> H: Tell me Will, would you ever say to me ‘Stop. If you loved me, you’d stop.’?  
> W: Not in a thousand years. (Clarice originally said this!)

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i was planning on making this one big fic, but a good chunk of this chapter had been sitting in my drafts for ages and i finally decided to post it as a chapter one, so each chapter can bounce back and forth from perspective. next chapter will be will's perspective picking up from where we left off at the end of this chapter here! i think making it shorter chapters will help me to continue it each day without stalling.
> 
> i'm excited to bring you further through the cape verde journey, this is my favorite world i've built for them i think. hope you are all doing quite well, xoxo and i will release more soon!


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